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THE HURON CHIEF, 



AisD 



OTHER POEMS. 



BY 



ADAM KIDD, 



Where are oar Chiefs ol okl ? Where our Heroes of mighty name ? 
The fields of their battles are silent— scarce their mossy tombs remain ! 

OSSIAN. 



MONTREAL : 

PRINTED AT THE OFFICE OF THE HERALD ASD SEW GAZET 

1830, 



'4-8^ 
'37 ^i 



TO 



THOMAS MOORE, 



THE MOST POPULAR, MOST POWERFUL, AND MOST PATRIOTIC 



V POET 



OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, 



WHOSE HAGIC LUMBERS 



HAVE VIBRATED TO THE HEARTS OF NATIONS. 



THESE POEMS ARE DEDICATED, 



BY HIS MOST ARDENT ADMIRER, 



ADAM KIDD. 



Moxtreal, January 25, IS SO. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Huron Chief, 13 

To Ciara, 131 

To Miss E R , . . „ , 133 

My Irish Home, 134 

To the Countess of D e, 135 

Monody, to the Shade of Lord Byron, 136 

To Miss , 140 

To the Rev. Polyphemus, 141 

To Sophia, 149 

My Brother's Grave, ,153 

To , 154 

The Canadian Girl, 155 

Spencer- Wood, 157 

To , . 160 

Napoleon in Exile .-.-.. 161 

To Mary, 164 

Apostrophe, to the Harp of Dennis Hampson, \qq 

To Miss Eveleen — , t 169 



Page 

To the Memory of Henry R. Symes, 170 

Cathleen, 172 

Sacred Melody, 175 

The Fairy-Boat, 176 

To _, a great poetical plagiarist, 179 

A Fugitive Garland, ISO 

To , ......... . 182 

To Miss M G , . « . . 184 

The Broken Heart, .......... 1S6 

Epitaph, on the Rev. 189 

To Miss Susan B s, 190 

Impromptu, to S C — dm — n, Esq., 193 

Sophia's Reply, 195 

To Mary, 197 

Rang] ea we, the roving Bard, ....... c . . . 199 

Monody, to the memory of the Right Hon. George Canning, . 202 

Stanzas, to the memory of a Friend, 204 

Elegy, on the death of Captain J. M'Michael, 207 

The Hibernian Solitary 209 

The Chiming Bell, 212 

Stanzas, to the Lord Bishop of Quebec, • . . . • . . 214 



PREFACE, 



At a time when Poetry has received the highest polish, 
from the master hands of a Byron and a Moore, it seems 
almost rashness in a youthful bard to attempt to cull, 
from the banks of Helicon, even one leaf of the immortal 
baccalia, to adorn his aspiring brow — while the conse- 
quences may prove as serious before the ordeal of Criticism 
as the efforts of Pliny, who perished in the fire of Vesu- 
vius, while searching into the cause of the beauteous, but 
destructive element. 

The little birch canoe, in which I have safe ly glided 
through the tranquil lakes of the Canadas, could not se- 
curely venture on the boiling surge, and foaming breakers, 
over which Childe Harold and Lalla Rookh triumphantly 
rode in their magnificent Gondolas, 



It is not, however, my intention to trouble the read- 
ers of the " Huron Chief " with useless apologies for 
the defects that it may possess, knowing that a poem of 
such length can scarcely be free from errors ; and, parti- 
cularly, when written, without much opportunity for cor- 
rection, on the inner rind of birch bark, during my travels 
through the immense forests of America, and under many 
difficulties and privations, arising from causes that I must, 
for the present, avoid mentioning. The innocent, and 
unassuming, friendly treatment that I experienced among 
the Indians, together with the melancholy recital of the 
deep wrongs which they received from those calling them- 
selves " Christians" induced me to undertake this dra- 
matic poem. 

From the days of the American Revolution until this 
very hour, the poor Indians have been so cruelly treated, 
and driven from their homes and hunting-grounds, by the 
boasted freemen of the United States, that the Mohicans, 
the Naragansetts, the Delawares, and others, once 
powerful Tribes, have now become totally extinct— while 



XI 

the remaining Nations are daily dwindling away, and in 
a few years hence will scarcely leave a memorial to per- 
petuate their names, as the once mighty rulers of the vast 
American regions. 

I am fully aware, that the " Huron Chief " will 
draw on me the censure of many— but this is no consi- 
deration, since I can fairly and honestly plead the correct- 
ness of my observations. Many of the Indian Tribes have 
emigrated into Canada — and are now prospering, and hap- 
pily enjoying the manly protection of the British Govern- 
ment. 

The miscellaneous poems, which follow the " Huron 
Chief,"' with the exception of the one to Polyphemus, 
were written for amusement, during the leisure hours ne- 
cessarily abstracted from a long round of professional 
studies, the benefits of which I have never yet reaped, 
owing to an accidental fall from the cloud-capped brows 
of a dangerous Mountain, over which I had heedlessly 
wandered, with all that open carelessness which is so pe- 
culiarly the characteristic of poetic feeling, 



Xll 

In the lines addressed to the Rev. Polyphemus, per- 
haps I have been too severe, having written them at a mo- 
ment when my every feeling was deeply touched by a sad 
and a serious disappointment. Let such be my apology ! 

The liberal and friendly encouragement with which 
my first attempt has been so highly favoured, and parti- 
cularly in the Canadas — fifteen hundred copies being al- 
ready called for — will induce me to follow up, in a more 
extensive volume, the Tales and Traditions of the Indians, 
which I have personally collected among them, together 
with local descriptions of the numerous cascades, stupen- 
dous cataracts, and majestic scenery of the country, which 
for beauty and grandeur remain unrivalled in the universe. 

The poem of the Huron Chief has made such an 
impression on the Indian warriors to whom it has been 
communicated, that it will shortly be translated into their 
respective tongues, by Sa wen no wane, and other Chiefs, 
equally celebrated and intelligent, who speak and write 
several languages. 



THE HURON CHIEF. 



On Huron's banks, one summer-day, 
When all things bloomed with beauty gay, 
I wandered undisturbed and free, 

Nor heard a sound, save wood-doves cooing, 
Or birds that tapped the hollow tree, 

Where owlets sat, their play- mates wooing, 
And harmony had rilled the throng 
Of pleasure, as I moved along. 



14 

'Tvvas thus, in rapture, I was bound, 
Where ev'ry beauty smiled around, 
That could delight the poet's heart, 

To gaze on groves, or plants, or waters, 
Or even to the soul impart 

Such bliss — once felt by Eden's daughters, 
When from their homes, in pleasure's hour, 
They strayed to cull each fragrant flow'r. 

Here every scene that struck the view, 
Seemed wrought in nature's richest hue, 
As if to tell me, where I stood, 

No foot, before, had ever bended, 
Save the great Spirit's of the wood, 

Wlien all the Nation's Tribes* ascended, 

* The five confederated nations are known by the names of Mo- 
hawks, Oneydoes, Onondagas, Cayugas and Senxekas. Each 
of these nations is divided into three tribes, or families, who distinguish 
themselves by three different arms or ensigns : the Tortoise, the Bear, 
and the Wolf; and the Sachems, or old men of these families, put 
their ensign, or marks of their family, to every public paper, when 



15 

That hill of green— where oft at night; 
The Council-fire displayed its light. 

And as I felt my soul give way, 
In purest dreams of ecstacy, 
I wished that in this spot along. 

With one kind heart to dwell forever. 
With one that I could call my own, 

Enjoying scenes of bliss together, 
As onward \ieve } from bower to grove, 



No tyrant hand to check our love. 



Here, when my heart had fancied all, 
And brought, as if by magic call, 
A splendid world of fairy bliss, 

For me to make my happy dwelling, 
With all the charms that hallow this — 

I heard soft words of sorrow swelling, 

they sign it. The rive Nations think themselves superior to the rest of 
mankind, and call themselves Ongus-honwe ; that is, men surpassing 
ail others.— Coli 

b2 



16 

Like these — sent from a grove of pine, 
As from a minstrel-voice, divine. 



Happy and blest were the days of my childhood, 
And smooth rolled the current of pleasure along, 

When first I delighted to stray through this wild wood, 
Breathing to echo each feeling in song. 

And oft when the fire-flies sported around me, 
Shedding their clear rays like spirits of light, 

I felt as if witchery's charms had bound me, 
In all the soft ties of the purest delight. 

The roe of the forest — nor beaver when playing, 

Through groves of green Sumach that bend o'er the steep, 

Or through vales of luxuriance lightly straying, 
Or laving their sides in the clear liquid deep — 

Enjoy not such transport, or pleasure as fired me, 

When first the bright glance of Moranka's black eye, 



17 

With love's purest essence had deeply inspired me, 
And drew all my thoughts from the Spirit on high, 

I loved with the fervour of Indian feeling- 
Was loved by the Chief — who as gently carest 

As the breath of the morn, o'er summer-buds stealing, 
Ere Sol drinks the dew-drop that hallows their breast 

Undisturbed as the wild deer that strays o'er the mountain. 

Or lily that sleeps in its calm liquid bed ; 
In that arbour of green, by the gush of the fountain, 

Oft, oft has my Huron there pillowed his head. 

But the hand of the white man has brought desolation— * : 
Our wigwams are plundered, our homes are no more, — - 

* Long and dismal are the complaints which the Indians make of 
the ingratitude and injustice of the Whites. They love to repeat 
them, and always do it with the eloquence of nature, aided by an 
energetic and comprehensive language, which our polished idioms can- 
not imitate. Often have I listened to these descriptions of their hard 
.sufferings, until I felt ashamed of being a white man.— Heche welder 






18 

And Moranka, the glory and pride of the Nation, 
Died bravely defending the Indian's shore. 

His battle-axe hangs on that branch now before me — 

His spirit is with me wherever I go — 
The broad plate that covered his breast is now o'er me, 

His arrows are shivered — but here lies the bow. 



Thus from her wild, impressive song, 
I caught each note that flowed along, 
Till over-swayed with fond desire, 

To steal one happy glance in quiet, 
1 stepped behind a little pyre — 

Nor shall my heart here now deny it- 
I saw, I loved the lonely one, 
Because she loved her Hero gone ! 

There is a feeling still that flings, 

Its softness o'er the young heart-strings, 



19 

And almost plays the lover's part, 
When one like this, its pulse awaken, 

With all the thrillings of the heart, 
In solitude — alone — forsaken, 

To hear — to see — and not be seen — = 

The sorrows of an Indian Queen. 

Now, all around is hushed and still, 
Save the notes of Whip-poor-will — 
And now deep in the tranquil lake, 

I see a sky of blue reflected — 
Without one curl its orb to shake, 

As if iEolus had neglected, 
To rouse it into life again, 
But left it bound in summer's chain. 

So calm, so still, no living thing, 
Was heard, but wild bees on the wing, 
Flitting around from leaf to flower, 
In all the luxury of roving, 



20 

Drinking up the honey- shower — 

Just like the tender youth when loving — 
Yet never satisfied to stay, 
With the rose, even one short day. 

Here, now I said, this silent hour. 
Invites me to her lonely bower, 
I will advance — she cannot fear- — 

And thus I reasoned, one short minute — 
My very look, must soon appear, 

And show her there's no danger in it ; 
But ere the words had left my tongue. 
My feet by impulse moved along. 

And as I now had stepped unseen, 
Before the arbour of the Queen, 
Again I paused, and looked again, 

As if to sue for invitation, 
But the load of sorrow's chain, 

.Still bound her in the same fixed station, 



21 

Like a statue, formed of grief- — 

She mourned— she wept her Huron Chief. 

Then can it be that I should dare, 
Her pangs of sorrow here to share, 
Or even venture to obtrude, 

On pure affection's burst of sadness, 
Poured forth in deepest solitude ; 

The act would be far more than madness 
I will not — cannot now destroy, 
The bliss of tears — oft felt like joy, 

I now resolved my steps to take, 
Along the windings of the lake, 
And glad to think I could evade 

The eyes, I long had wished to gaze on, 
When from a close, dark tangled shade, 

A hoary Chief, whom age delays on, 
Addressed me thus, in accents clear, 
As if an angel whispered near. 



22 

Stranger ! whither wouldst thou stray, 
I wish to guide thy wand'ring feet, 

This is not the white man's way, 
Another path we soon shall meet. 

I'm the Chieftain of this mountain — 
Times, and seasons,* found me here — - 

My drink has been the crystal fountain — 
My food the wild moose or the deer. 

And though much sorrow I have found, 

Since first the white man touched our shore- 
Nought here but miseries abound, 
And pleasures we can taste no more. 

But though I've shared the worst of ills, 
The Christian foe-man could devise— 



* " I am an aged hemlock," said a distinguished Oneida Chief, 
" the winds of one hundred and twenty years have whistled through 
my branches." 



23 

Yet, on those wild, un travelled hills. 
Of him I'd make no sacrifice, 

My soul disdains a coward's deed— 
My heart and hand shall freely give. 

Relief to all who stand in need, 

While on Lake Huron's banks I live a 



Thus spoke the noble Indian Sage, 
As from a grove of infant pine. 

He stepped, in all the grace of age, 
And looked as if a saint divine. 

His language o'er my feelings stole, 
Like notes of pleasure on the ear. 

Or joys flung o'er the drooping soul, 
When hope itself had ceased to cheer. 

I felt each throb of fear give way, 
While tracing every line of grief, 



24 

That on his withered visage lay, 

And thus addressed the aged Chief: 



Sire— I'm not the Indian's foe — 
No hostile hand I bear to thee : 

My bosom feels for others' woe, 
And my affections run as free, 

As yon clear stream that winds along, 
The velvet borders of the wood, 

To mingle with the mighty throng, 
Of waters in their destined flood. 

I am a stranger — here before 

My feet have never dared to tread, 

Nor touch the verdure of the shore, 
Where Huron laves his pebbled bed. 

But now, since mutual converse brings, 
The heart's best feelings purely out, 



25 

And o'er the soul such candour flings, 
That we can neither fear nor doubt — ■ 

Permit me here, to ask the name, 

Of one who proves so much a friend — 

Unpurchased by the hope of fame, 

Or aught that could such worth extend. 

My name, replied the gentle sage, 
Is Skenandow — once known afar, 

When first the white man felt the rage, 
Of Indians, in defensive war. 

But here, in converse, while we stood, 
Shaded from the sunny ray — 

A youth, emerging from the wood, 
Thus sung his plaintive melody. 



There is a grief, 
Beyond relief, 

Now pressing on my souI ? 



26 

With all the pain, 
That can remain, 

In sorrow's tainted bowl. 

And I must sup, 
The baneful cup — 

Misfortune stamps my lot— 
Nor will bestow, 
On me below, 

One peaceful — little spot I 

There was a time, 
When joys sublime, 

Beat proudly in my heart — 
And I could share, 
Such pleasures, rare, 

As love, and bliss, impart 

But here I stray, 
From day to day, 

And pass my hours alone- — 



27 

The maid, revered — ■ 
To me endeared— 

Is dead !- — forever gone ! 



Now, when the youth had ceased to sing, 
And echo brought the ling 'ring tone, 

Upon the Zephyr's mellowed wing, 
" Is dead ! — forever gone I " 

The aged Chief resumed again, 
The freedom of his gentle speech, 

As slow we moved across the plain, 
That winds along the sloping beach. 

That youth, he said, whose plaintive song, 
Has just now melted on the ear, 

As through the woods he straved along — 
Nor thought that we were standing near- 

Is one of Sioux noble race, 

Who well the battle-axe could wield— 

4 



28 

Nor would the Indian name disgrace, 
When honour called him to the field. 

Pure, gen'rous love, his soul inspired, 
For Ta-poo-ka,* of raven hair — 

He sought — he gained what he desired — 
And love the fondest joined the pair. 

But Fate, that ever loves to throw 
An evil shade o'er joys like this, 

Was sure to bring a drop of woe, 
To mingle with their cup of bliss I 

And soon he found, that heart and hand, 
He fancied his — and his forever — 

Were, by a father's fixed command, 
Now destined from him here to sever ! 

Yet, Ta-fooka, full well he knew, 
Possessed a heart, too pure to dread, 

* This word requites a slow accent. 



59 

That audit on earth could it subdue, 
Till death had wrapped it with the dead ! 

But ere the coming of that time, 

Which mutual love had marked to be 

The witness of such joys sublime, 
As crown the marriage jubilee — 

A father's mandate had declared, 
That she must be another's bride — 

The day was fixed — all things prepared, 
To adorn the wedding fireside. 

And now the marriage feast was laid, 
Midst guests assembled from afar, 

Who, having to Manitto* prayed, 
Salute the beauteous bridal-star. 



* The Manitto is a sort of idol, representing, in wood, tiie head 
of a man in miniature, which they always cany about them, either on 



cS 



so 

The eve was fine — no breath to shake 

The verdant leaves that o'er them hung — 

And far across the glassy lake, 

The moon a path of light had flung — 

And all around, the twinkling glow 

Of fire-flies, that sported near, 
Illum'd the scene, above, below, 

As if the evening's joys to cheer. 

Eye beamed on eye, while every Chief, 
Midst laughing looks, soft pleasures trace- 



a string round their neck, or in a bug. They hang it also about their 
children, to preserve them from illness, and to ensure to them success. 
-~-Losxiel. 

Mackenzie, in his voyages from Montreal, through the Continent 
of North America, to the Frozen and Pacific Oceans, says, that each 
Indian carries with him, in his medicine bag, a kind of household god, 
which is a small carved image, about eight inches long. Its first co- 
vering is of down, over which a piece of birch bark is closely tied, 
and the whole is enveloped in several folds of red and blue cloth. 
This little figure is an object of the most pious regard. 



SI 

But in one heart there lay a grief, 

Which soon must find a resting place. 

Yes — Ta-poo-ka, the trembling bride, 
Felt pangs too sadly keen to last — ■ 

Deep pangs, that with life's flowing tide ; 
Were to the inmost feeling cast. 

She had resolved — the vow once made, 
And sanctioned by a stainless heart, 

Could never, never be betrayed, 
Till from her bosom life depart ; — 

An aged Chief she could not wed, 

And break the pledge already given— 

Ah no ! she'd rather seek the dead, 
And risk the mercy sent by heaven, 

With thoughts like these upon her mind, 
She from her father's cabin stole— 



32 

When festive pleasures, unconfined, 
Filled high with rapture every soul. 

And to a cliff, that far extends 
Its frowning horrors o'er the lake, 

Her trembling step she onward bends, 
Nor seemed one minute's pause to make. 

Then, from the gloomy brink above — 
Where nought a female foot could urge, 

Save the keen power of maddening love — 
She plunged within the foaming surge ! 

There, ever since, the spirit-bride, 

When night-shades round are closing dim, 

In her canoe, is seen to glide, 
Across the curling water's brim. 



The Huron paused — and I could trace 
In every line that marked his face, 



Feelings he wished not to impart — 

Yet, now and then, saddest throbs would spring, 
From the pained recess of the heart, 

The herald of his deep sorrowing — 
Like the tear that brings relief, 
The mute interpreter of grief. 

Long, long upon the holy man, 
My eyes with admiration ran, 
Till every feeling stronger grew, 

That to his forest-home had bound me, 
And even at the moment drew, 

Such scenes of bliss enchanting round me, 
That Europe's pomp I'd quick resign, 
To dwell within his groves of pine. 



With such a man, poor Goldsmith might have stood. 
To see " the luxury of doing good" — 
And here, where nature's child delights to stray, 
Might gladly pass the lengthen'd summer day, 



34 

Where, undisturbed, the Indian finds repose, 
Midst arbours scented by the blushing rose. 

Oh ! what a spot, to make one minute's pause, 
And feel the transport contemplation draws, 
While every prospect rising to the view, 
Half tells the joys our happier fathers knew, 
Before the plans of art had come between, 
And made of beauty's shades a barren scene. 

Oh, happy home ! where nought but nature's plan 
Is felt, and practised, by contented man ; 
No shifting system here we ever trace, 
But all things have their own, their proper place. 
No half- taught Noble, from the Charter-school, 
Whose wealth, and vanity, are sure to rule, 
Can here disturb that peace, that tranquil good, 
Which cheers the freeman of the bount'ous wood. 



Here, from the silence sorrow brought, 
Deep wrapped in melancholy thought, 
Like the gloom of saddening pain — 



35 

The Huron Chief, with deepest feelings 
Thus touched the pliant chords again, 

Of conversation — gently stealing 
O'er a heart, long unknown to ease — 
In words which much resemble these. 



Friend — since we've past this summer day 
In mutual converse here alone, 

Till now the sun's last parting ray 
Is faintly o'er the waters thrown — 

I fondly ask, that you would share 
The Indian wigwam for the night — 

Nor think that danger lodges there, 
Or aught that could the heart affright. 

Ah no ! — the Huron has a soul 
Untainted by the coward's deed — 

And bravery beyond control, 

When summoned forth in time of need, 



36 

Then come — we'll now our path pursue 
By yon dark grove of lofty pine, 

Where oft the wild deer rambles through, 
Or loves in silence to recline. 

The moon now gleaming o'er the trees, 
Will be the evening's modest guide— 

And still the rustling of the leaves 
Will cheer us to the cabin side. 

Such nobleness of word and thought, 
So highly every feeling wrought, 
That here I could not once refuse,* 

The friendship of his invitation— 
Or even shyness seem to use, 

When thus, the hero of a nation, 



* It is the custom of an Indian never to repeat a request if once 
rejected. They believe that those to whom they offer any maik of 
friendship, and who give a reason for refusing it, do so in perfect sin- 
cerity, and that it would be rudeness to require them to alter their 
determination, or break their word.— Buchanan's Sketches, 



37 

Had kindly asked that I might share 
The bounties of his cabin, rare. 

Then, on our winding path we bend, 
Where elm, and oak, their shades extend — 
And all the beauties of the, way, 

Like fairy visions placed around us, 
Almost allured the heart to stay, 

Where nature's lovely charms half bound us, 
In scented groves of sweet delight, 
Now hallowed by the moon's pale light. 

Oh ! here, I said, where heaven bestows, 
On every plant afcd shrub that grows, 
The fragrance of a spicy clime — 

How blest to share the raptures in it, 
Until the fleeting glass of time 

Had number 'd up life's closing minute, 
And I might turn, to take one view 
Of earth's last joys— then breathe adieu I 
to 



38 

While thus my fancy loved to trace, 
The charms of this romantic place, 
A sudden light burst on the view, 

The sweetest joys of home unfolding-, 
As near, and nearer, still we drew, 

Heaven's purest transports there beholding, 
Where all around the bright fire gay, 
The children of the forest play. 

All, all the Huron Chief address, 
With smiles and words of tenderness, 
And in each heart there seem'd to run, 

The generous glow of kindred feeling, 
Mingled with soft mirth and fun, 

When thus, a melody came stealing, 
So soft, so sweet, so purely clear, 
An angel might have paused to hear. 



Hail, hail to the Chieftain that stands now before us, 
The greatest, the bravest the Huron can boast — 



39 

Yet mild as the moon-beam, now gently thrown o'er us, 
And pure as the spirits that brighten our coast. 

Our hearts beat with rapture, when here we behold him, 
And love's fondest impulse tells how he's earess'd, 

While the youths from our wigwams rush out to enfold him, 
And clasp, with affection, the Chief to their breast. 

Tis Skenandow's name we still love to awaken, 
And give to the light air that fans our wild groves, 

When by it each young leaf is tenderly shaken, 
As onward, through shades of green elm, it roves. 

But now, round the fire that brilliantly sparkles, 

We'll join the light dance with hearts happy and gay, 

Where the young eye of love still ocoasion'ly darkles, 
Beneath the long lashes that shadows its ray. 

Then here, in this bower kind heaven has granted, 
Where rose-buds, and violets, perfume the blest night, 
d2 



40 

And the Chief of the Hurons the Peace-tree* has planted, 
We'll spend this sweet hour of happy delight. 



Oh ! what a beauteous, charming scene, 
On that pure, downy, tufted green, 
To see the children of the grove, 

With hearts that felt no touch but pleasure, 
Thus linked in social, tender love, 

Where flowing joys seemed without measure, 
Beneath a verdant maple shade, 
Which Nature's God alone had made. 

And never did the orb of night, 
Fling forth her modest beams of light, 
On such a prospect of sweet bliss, 

As laughing here she might discover, 
In one short hour, so dear as this — 

Much like the time some youthful lover 



* The Five Nations always express peace by the metaphor of a 
tree. — Coldon. 



41 

Steals out to meet his vrished-for bride, 
Close by some shady garden side. 

E'en here Ulysses might have strayed, 
When first he wooed his mountain-maid, 
And half his native home forgot, 

Seduced by love's enchanting power — 
To fancy this delightful spot, 

As charming as Calypso's bower, 
Where two kind hearts might rapture share, 
As happy as an Eden pair. 

And I would tell the polished man, 
Brought up in Europe's fashioned plan, 
That never could his formal art, 

Or all that school-taught lore has given, 
Such graceful happiness impart, 

As cheers the Indian's forest heaven — 
Who gives, or asks, with greatest ease, 
Whate'er his heart or soul can please. 

d3 



42 

The Huron Chief now gently takes 

The Horn, which thrilling rapture wakes, 

And gives the signal for the dance — 

When youth, with youth, feeling joy's excess, 
Moves in some eye's bewitching glance, 

With all the sweet charms of playfulness, 
Light as the musk-roe, when it treads 
Upon the violet-sprinkled beds. 

Here, as I gazed upon the throng, 

And caught each mingling breath of song, 

My heart almost began to feel 

A glow — like love's too sure emotion — 
Directly to its center steal, 

And wake a thrill of soft devotion — 
Yet, who will blame me when I tell, 
I loved Kemana over well ! 

Nor could I view such eyes of jet, 
And easily their power forget — 



43 

Such power, as into sweetest love, 

Can warm the heart's intensest feeling, 

While breathings, soft as from a dove, 
Come o'er the ear enraptured stealing. 

Giving life its happiest tone, 

While worshipping her eyes alone.* 

Now, on this velvet-cushioned spot, 
Where all my woes seem quite forgot — 
And God has given an ample share — 

With Kemana I'd dwell forever, 
Nor backward turn one thought of care, 

Till death itself the tie should sever — 
The tie that bound me to this bower, 
Where life has passed its happiest hour. 



* Horace, in speaking of his beloved Licymnia, in an Ode ad- 
dressed to his friend Mecjenas, says : 

Musa me voluit dicer e lucidum 
Fulgentes oculos, et bene ??iutuis 
Fidum pectus a?noribus. 



44 

Oh ! never since my boy-hood's days, 
When o'er Slievegallin's mantled braes, 
Ere thought, or reason, took command, 

I strayed with heart as light as feather, 
Or raised my rude, unguarded hand, 

To slay the bee lodged in the heather — 
Have joys so stainless touched my heart, 
As those which now their bliss impart. 

Yet, be our transports e'er so sweet, 
Another hour we're apt to meet, 
Which disapproves the one gone by, 

And stands the Sage to show its errors— 
Thus man moves on through destiny, 

With wiser acts — all free from terrors — 
Till every moment of the past, 
Seems fool, or madman, to the last. 

For me, I hate all whining cant, 

And, doubly so, the Churchman's rant, 



45 

If even sent from sides of iron, 

By hill, by dale, by grot, or fountain, 

Against the great, immortal Byron I 
In all the poising of a M*«t**n, * 

Who nothing loves, but what's his own, 

Or some thing else that wears a gown, 

But I have wandered here too far — ■ 
Yet, who the Muse's flight can mar, 
Or even stop her in her way ? 

When once her wing is full extended, 
No human art her power can stay, 

Till she her destined course has ended, 
Then lights again, all fair and mild, 
MNEMOSYNE'sf enchanting child. 

From this last theme I find relief, 

To turn and view the Huron Chief, 

* Vide, the address to the Rev. Polyphemus, towards the end of 
this volume. 

f A Persian Nymph, who brought forth the nine Muses to Jupiter. 



46 

Where, like some noble lord of man, 

In all the dignity of feeling, 
He stands, surrounded by his clan ; 

In every look and act revealing, 
The fondness of parental care, 
Which all around him freely share. 

Here now the fire's flaming light, 
Seemed mingling with the stars of night, 
Till every leaf, and plant, and flower, 

In burnished beauty smiled around us, 
Illumining the happy bower, 

Where love enchanting fondly bound us, 
Midst a glow of heavenly bliss, 
Which few on earth have shared, like this. 

Oh ! what a circle now appears, 
Where smiling joy each moment cheers, 
Giving to love so sweet a tone, 

As makes the heart forget its sorrows, 



47 

To gaze on jetty eyes alone. 

With every thrill that pleasure borrows, 
From looks that wear so chaste a hue, 
When half the soul seems shining through. 

And how the mind delights to trace 

The beauties of a lovely face,* 

Where only nature's hand had wrought, 

The softest charms — by art unaided — 
And into pure perfection brought 

Each tint — which glossy locks had shaded, 
On a brow of pleasing dye, 
As smiled beneath a sunny sky. 

Yes — on Kemana I could gaze, 
And ever love to sing her praise, 



* Mackenzie, in speaking of some of the Indian women whom he 
met with in his travels through Canada, says : — " Their figure is gene- 
rally well proportioned, and the regularity of their features would be 
acknowledged by the more civilized people of Europe, " 



48 

Till life's warm stream should cease to flow, 
Or my loved harp's last chord be broken, 

And ruin o'er its frame should throw 
The shade, which brings a silent token, 

That harp, and bard, and all had fled, 

To moulder with the lonely dead. 

Thus, thus my fancy led me o'er 
New joys, unfelt — unseen before — 
Till every bliss that seemed unfurled, 

Proclaimed the Indian's richest treasure- 
Pure emblems of another world — 

And I had paused, to hear with pleasure, 
The Huron Chief thus speak again, 
In friendship's softest, kindest strain. 



There is to me a transport given, 
While here I view my children all, 

Beneath a starry sprinkled heaven, 
Enjoying pleasure's festival. 



49 

And still I hope my days shall run. 

Thus marked with friendship's softest hue, 

Until my life's last setting sun 

Shall throw its parting beams on you. 

And when beside yon cedar grove, 
I'm left in silence calm to sleep, 

The Indian there at times may rove, 
Or make a pause, perchance to weep. 

Yes — he may weep, and backward throw 
One thought upon this brilliant night ; 

And breathe the name of Skenandow — 
Who loved the Huron with delight, 

Now, as the oak upon the hill, 
Whose aged branches feel decay, 

The streams of life begin to chill, 
And all my vigour wastes away, 

E 



50 

The season's gone, when I could trace 
The foot-steps of the bounding roe, 

Till, in the long directed chase, 
1 raised' the never-erring bow ; — 

But rny worn heart no more can bear 

The toils that once were rendered sweet ; 

Ah no ! — Time's hand lies heavy there, 
And ruin seems almost complete. 

Oft, in my boy-hood's cheerful hour, 

Through these green woods I've loved to stray? 
And chase the bee from leaf to flower, 

Or with the little Chipmunk* play. 



* This is the name generally given to the Qtchi-ta-mou, or s^ali 
striped squirrel — which is very commonly met with in America. They 
are very pretty little creatures ; and have frequently startled me by 
their sudden chirp, as they darted among the withered leaves at my 
feet, when perhaps in the act of raising my gun, to fire at a partridge, 
perched on the lofty branch of some neighbouring elm. 



51 

Yes — I have felt my days glide by, 

Without one touch of earthly care, 
To damp the glow of ecstasy, 

Which youthful hearts alone can share. 
* 
But all such joys have passed away, 

Just like soft music's thrilling tone, 
When every look, and heart, was gay, 

And soul, with soul, seemed linked in one. 

Yet, with this remnant* of my tribe, 
My life shall gladly meet its close— 



* Lord Kaimes observes, that it is computed by able writers, thafe 
the present inhabitants (Aboriginies) of America, amount net to a 
twentieth part of those who existed when that continent was discovered 
by Columbus. This dzczy is ascribed to the' intemperate use of spirits, 
and to the small-pox — both of them introduced by the Europeans, 
He seems to have forgotten — adds another writer — that they a 
debted to us also for the intemperate use of the sword, and the 
ful bigotry and cruelties practised by the religious and avaricious 
Spaniards. Bartholemew Casa affirms, that the Spaniards, in Ame- 
rica, destroyed, in about forty-five years, ten millions of human sou's 
—and this with a view of converting those unfortunate men to C 



52 

And on that spot- — which I prescribe- 
There let my sorrows find repose I 



Thus spoke the very aged Sire, 
To all assembled round the fire— 
Which threw its flame across the heaven,. 

In all the brilliancy of beauty, 
Like a burnished cloud at even, 

Illumining man's path to duty, 
When he hears upon the air, 
The vesper-bell invite to prayer. 



ianity. He also tells us, that the Indians were hanged thirteen in 
a roiv, in honour of the thirteen Apostles ! and that their infants 
were given to be devoured by dogs. — There is a story recorded of an 
Indian, who, being tied to the stake, a Franciscan Friar persuaded 
him to turn Christian, and then he would go to heaven. The Indian 
asked him, ' Whether there were any Spaniards in heaven V * Cer- 
tainly,' answered the Friar, * it is full of them.' Then, the last 
words of the dying Indian were, ' I had rather go to hell than have 
any more of their company !' — Corsini assures us, that they destroyed 
above fifteen millions of these unhappy men in less than fifty years. 



53 

Oh ! what a hallowed, charming hour, 
In nature's sweet, romantic bower, 
To see the Indian lift his eyes, 

With purest feelings of devotion, 
To his own unclouded skies, 

Until the heart's deep felt emotion, 
From his lips, in strains of love, 
Is to the Spirit sent above. 

And I have thought this spot to be 
A type of that pure sanctu'ry, 
Where, first repenting, man had trod, 

When by some holy angel guided, 
To talk in prayer alone with God — 

And, having in his love confided, 
Felt the balm of sweet relief, 
When rescued from his load of grief. 

It was a pure, a holy sight, 

In the loRe silence of the night, 

eS 



54 

To see devotion's fervent soul,* 
By Nature's God alone directed, 

Beyond the pressure of control, 
Pursue a path not once neglected,. 

To a sunny sphere of bliss> 

Possessing joys unknown in this. 

Here, as I pictured every good, 

That seemed to cheer the bount'ous wood, 

The happy Tribe retired to rest, 

On cedar boughs, and skins of beaver, 
Soft as the down that clothes the breast 

Of infant swan, or snow-bird ever — 



* They generally make feasts and sacrifices, and the scene of these 
ceremonies is in an open inclosure on the bank of a river or lake, and 
in the most conspicuous situation, in order that such as are passing along, 
or travelling, may be induced to make their offerings. There is, also, 
a particular custom among them, that, on these occasions, if any of the 
tribe, or even a stranger, should be passing by, and be in real want of 
any thing that is displayed as an offering, he has a right to take it, so 
that he replaces it with some article he can spare, though it be of far 
inferior value, — Mackenzie's Journals. 



55 

And thus, my life's first happy day, 
'Midst scenes the purest, moved away. 



Soon as the morning's cheerful light 
Had thrown aside the veil of night — 
And having breathed my parting prayer, 

To Chief — to youth— and all around me- — 
But most to one that lingered there — 

To one, that by love's magic bound me — 
Along the Lake's smooth, shelving side, 
I wandered with my chosen guide. 

And as I marked each brilliant scene 
That bloomed in summer's youthful green, 
Alkwanwaugh gently told the tale 

Of days, that live but in tradition — 
And all the joys that cheered the vale, 

Where dwells the remnant of the Nation — 
That remnant loving still to trace 
The glories of the Huron race. 



56 

From Atsistari,* known afar, 
By all his noble deeds of war — 
He well recounted every name 

On mem'ry's page — stamped in succession, 
Bright as the beams of lasting fame — 

Nor seemed to make one short digression — 
Through every scene of varied strife, 
Until this very date of life. 



* Atsistarj. — This distinguished warrior, who flourished in 1676, 
is still spoken of, by the Chieftains of the present day. as one of the 
greatest heroes that ever lived among the Hurcns. In all my inquiries 
respecting this noble Indian, I received the most honourable, and most 
interesting accounts, and particularly from Oci-a-ra-lih-to, the old- 
est Chief of the village of Lorette. — This venerable patriarch, who is 
now approaching the precincts of a century, is the grandson of Tsa- 
a-ra-lih-to, head Chief of the Hurons during the war of 1759. Oui- 
a-ra-lih-to, with about thirty-five warriors of the Indian Village of 
Lorette, in conjunction with the Iroquois and Algonq.lixs, was ac- 
tively engaged in the anriy of Borgayde, a name unworthy to be asso- 
ciated with the noble spirit of Indian heroism. — During my visit to 
this old Chief — May, 1829 — he willingly furnished rrie with an account 
of the distinguished warriors, and the traditions of different tribes, which 
are still fresh in his memory, and are handed from father to son, with 
the same precision, interest, and admiration, that the Tales and ex- 
ploits of Ossian and his heroes are circulated in their original purity, 
to this day, among the Irish. 



57 

From Tribe to Tribe — from Chief to Chief- 
In all the pride of manly grief, 
His soul of feeling led him on, 

To tell the Indian's wrongs and sorrows— 
But most of Logan, lately gone — 

With throbs as deep as sadness borrows, 
When first the sympathising heart 
Its burst of anguish would impart. 

And never has attention hung, 
Upon the accents of a tongue, 
With truer, fonder, purer zeal, 

Than when I heard the Mingo's story, 
Which Alkwanwaugh loved to reveal — 

Recorder of the Hero's glory — 
In words, as perfect as before, 
Like these, addressed to Lord Dunmore. 



Let any white man now declare, 
Whom fate impelled to wander here, 



58 

If Logan e'er refused to share 
His cabin and its humble cheer. 

Or when the chilling blasts of wind, 
And hunger forcibly assailed, 

His wearied heart— -did he not find 
That Logan's care o'er all prevailed? 

And when destructive war's fell rage — 
In many battles, lost and gained, 

Regardless still of youth or age, 
Its bloody conflict still maintained. 

Such was the love I bore the whites, 
I stood the advocate of peace, 

And yielded more than half my rights, 
While striving others to release : 

Till every Indian, as he pass'd, 
His home and country to defend, 



59 

On me his eyes indignant cast — 

Said, " Logan is the white man's friend ! fJ 

But still, regardless of the blame 
My Country's heroes threw on me, 

I ever hoped to check the flame, 

And with my counsels set them free. 

But Perfidy, that foulest stain — 

Which to the whites its gifts impart — * 

For every good inflicted pain, 

And roused the fury of my heart. 

Then, then, the battle-axe I drew, 
And with an arm long skilled in war, 



* There is no faith to be placed in the words of the white men. 
They are not like the Indians, who are only enemies while at war, 
and are friends in peace. They will say to an Indian, « My friend — 
my brother.' They will take him by the hand, and at the same mo- 
ment destroy him.— Speech of a great Delaware Chief. 



60 

On Kanhaway's proud banks I slew, 
Each white that sought its force to mar. 

And still, my wives and children all, 

Whose murdered bodies clothe the ground. 

To me for vengeance loudly call, 
Nor can I look in silence round ; — 

For now, beneath yon glowing sun, 

There neither lives, nor breathes, one creature- 
Where e'en one drop of blood can run, 

To stamp the last — the Mingo's* feature ! 



* Logan was a celebrated Chief of the Mingo tribe, and long 
distinguished as the generous friend of the whites, until his wives and 
little children, who had been travelling in a hunting party with the 
Indians, were basely murdered in the spring of 1774, by Colonel Cre- 
sap and his Christian followers, whom he had long befriended. Logan 
was so deeply enraged at this unprovoked cruelty, that he determined 
to seek revenge, and nobly signalized himself in a decisive battle fought 
at the mouth of the great Kanhaway, between the collected forces of 
the Mingoes, Shay^axese, and Dela wares ; and the Virginian 
Militia. 



61 

But, since my vengeance is complete, 
And I've appeased the mighty dead — 

I stand life's darkest ills to meet, 
Nor any power does Logan dread. 

Yet, for the happy beams of peace, 
And for my country's good alone, 

I now rejoice at this release 

From evils — though untimely gone, 

But do not harbour one foul thought, 
That mine can be the l Joy of Fear' — 

Ah, no — this heart was never brought 
To yield to mortal, sword, or spear* 

Nor would I, in the field of strife; 

One second on my heel there turn. 
If certain then to save my life — 

Where none for Logan stops to mourn ! 



Such was the tale — ami such the man, 
Designed to show that noble plan, 
Which Nature formed for one and all, 

When Freedom — first her gifts bestowing- 
Had summoned at her magic call 

Proud hearts, with noble ardour glowing. 
To worship at her holy shrine, 
And share the cup of bliss divine. 

When thus imagination strays 
To gather joy from other days, 
The real sorrows of our own 

Seem mantled with some bright illusion; 
Until the spell aside is thrown, 

And w r e can view the dark confusion 
Of gloomy images, that pass 
Before life's party coloured glass. 

Still, if one pleasure earth bestows. 
To make the heart forget its woes ; 



63 

And steal it from itself away— 

This lovely wood must be the dwelling, 

Of all that pleasure can pourtray, 

Where beauty — beauty seems excelling, 

In summer's sweet enchanting smile. 

Around the spirit-guarded Isle.* 

Here, while the captive eye surveyed 
The mingled grandeur, far displayed 
On every side — like Eastern bowers, 

Where some young Hinda oft reposes — 
Or strays alone, in sunny hours, 

Mong arbours blushing with sweet roses- 
A hunter, in his birch canoe, 
Sailed o'er the dimpling wave of blue. 



^ Manitoulin. — This name implies the residence o\ Maxitoes, 
or genii, a distinction very commonly attributed to the tsfands.— 

Henry's Travels. 



64 

And, as a swallow cleaves the air, 

His bark ran swiftly through Saint Clair, 

Nor semed to feel the current's force, 

In which the pliant paddle bended, 
But onward kept its steady course, 

To where the Lake's wide wave extended- 
Yet, now so tranquilly at rest, 
Life's bark might slumber on its breast, 

All looked so like the scenes and groves, 
Through which the dreaming spirit roves, 
That my wrecked heart forgot the pain 

A Mountain Demon flung before it- 
While thus, the hunter's mellowed strain, 

With soft'ning influence came o'er it, 
Like breathings of some magic song, 
As slow he steered his borit along. 

SONG. 
Far o'er the lake's extended brim, 
- I see the light that guides me home— 



65 

And now my bark doth lightly skim 
The waters, onward to my dome. 

And oh ! 'tis sweet at day's decline. 

When wearied with the lengthened chase, 

To see yon distant lights now shine, 
And guide me to that favourite place — 

Where Coosea, mild as the dove, 
Oft cheered my heart at close of day, 

And sung unmeasured strains of love — 
Such strains as stole my heart away. 

Bright as our Council-fire there gleamed, 
Diffusing joy through shades of night, 

Her sparkling eyes with lustre beamed, 
And cheered the heart with soft delight. 

For Coosea, had charms alone, 

That could subdue the warrior Chief, 



66 

And with each sweet, untutored tone, 
Bring to the wearied heart relief. 

Yes, lovely as Alkwanwaugh's bride* — 
More soft than down of infant beaver — 

Thy touch could raise a thrilling tide, 
Of love, the purest — sweetest ever. 

The swan that skims our native lakes, 

Is not so graceful in its air — 
The birdf that haunts our silent brakes, 

Is not so jetty as that hair, 

That hair which falls in artless grace, 
Concealing half those smiles of thine, 



* The unfortunate Ta-poo-ka, to whom the Indians compared 
every thing that was beautiful, — She was the idol of the Nation — every 
young heart worshipped her. 

f This seems to be a species of the black-bird, so generally known 
in the British Islands — it is somewhat smaller, but of a much darker 
colour, These birds are very numerous in Canada, and lodge chiefly 
about the different fens and marshes of the country. 



67 

In which each wond'ring youth may trace, 
A soul that purely is divine. 

Oh ; Coosea ! I hail the shore, 

And shady bank, where oft I've stood, 

My love -song in thine ear to pour, 
Thou sweetest daughter of the wood. 

Thanks to the Indian's God who brings 

Kekapoo to his home again, 
Where undisturbed he freely sings, 

With Coosea to join the strain. 

Then, Spirit of the great and free, 

Protect us from the white man's laws— 

We only bow, and bend to thee, 

Of Good, the Author and the Cause. 



Day after day with rapture flew. 
Unfolding ever something new— 



68 

Where'er we looked — -where'er we strayed- 
By rugged cliffs — by groves, or waters- 
Such varied grandeur seemed displayed 
As Nature with profusion scatters — 
And every tint, and every dye, 
Smiled 'neath a lovely, glowing sky. 

When we had viewed the winding Lake, 
To Erie* then our course we take, 
Well fitted with a birch canoe, 

So neat, so light, you'd scarce discover 
The motion, as it onward flew, 

The shooting rapids swiftly over — 
While the trees, on either shore, 
The other way seemed hurried more. 

Now, o'er a clear — a placid stream — 
Half burnished by the sun's last beam, 

* Lake Erie* 



69 

Which through the lofty pines was thrown— 

Our little bark went proudly gliding, 
As mistress of the wave alone. 

Where we in safety now were riding, 
'Midst scenes majestic, and as grand 
As e'er were shaped by Nature's hand. 

We next approached a lovely bay, 
Which in the woods half folded lay, 
Without one motion on its breast — 

And seemed most cheerfully inviting. 
As if to lull our bark to rest, 

And make each prospect more delighting — 
While on its brim we cast an eye, 
To trace each figure of the sky.* 



* So pellucid are the waters of the great Lakes in Canada, that, 
In a calm evening, when the sun is shillings the broken clouds, as they 
fioat in air, and the branches of the giant pine, half nodding over the 
mighty deep, are beautifully reflected. — The St, Lawrence — called 
by the Hurons, Ladauanna — which flows from these great reservoirs, 
partakes all the transparency of its origin, till it meets, at the Cas- 
cades, the expanded waters of the Ottawa, The junction of these 



70 

Here, as we gained the velvet shore, 
Where scene on scene attracted more, 



two mighty rivers forms, perhaps, one of the grandest prospects in the 
world. On one side is seen the impatient waters of the St. Law- 
rence, tumbling over rugged rocks and cascades, like the white foam- 
ing horses of Ossian ; and on the other, the gloomy majesty of the 
Ottawa, rolling on, through immense forests, in the silent dignity of 
his greatness — until they meet, side by side, in the. broad valley of 
Hoshelaga. Here the contrast becomes magnificent- — for the proud 
St. Lawrence — which the impudent Buchanan* would sell for a bag 
of flaxseed — still maintains its purity, nor seems willing to receive 
the proffered waters of its dark but noble rival, until running a dis- 
tance of more than twenty-seven miles, and distinctly passing Mon- 
treal — where their reconciled spirits more closely meet, and become 
mutually blended. — The lovely Bays, formed among the thousand Is- 
lands in the St. Lawrence, between Kingston and Brockyille, 
and even as far as Cornwall, afford the most delightful scenery and 
fishing places. — Often have I remained in several of these Bays, for 
hours, leaning over the side of a birch canoe, watching the numerous 
hordes of large fish sporting, at not less than twenty feet below the 
surface, until the appearance of some overgrown monster, as ruler of 
the great abyss over which I was then suspended, reminded me of the 
delicate texture of my vessel, and that, even with one Hap of his tail, 
I might become an unwilling partaker of the element I was so much 
admiring. 



* Mr. Buchanan is now British Consul at New York. It is a great 
pity he was not appointed one of the Commissioners for settling the bound' 
ary line ; and then the Americans might have got all the St. Lawrence 
to themselves. We have already experienced the effects of such wisdom as 
Mr. Buchanan's. He had better commence brewing, on a stream sepa- 
rate from the majestic St. Lawrence. 



71 

A voice as soft-— divinely sweet* 

As summer winds o'er rose-buds playing, 
With potent magic seemed to meet 

The list'ning ear — and onward straying. 
Note by note — you'd think when nigher ? 
Some fairy hand had touched the lyre, 

In such a place — in such an hour- 
It looked as if enchanting power, 
With Syren spells to lure away 

The heart to some unthought of danger. 
And make but an ignoble prey 

Of one, to evils not a stranger — - 
Of one, who seldom tasted bliss — - 
Then, if deceit — none sweet as this ! 

But soon we found the pleasing tone 
Was breathed by one that sat alone? 



* The women sung — and the sweetness of their voices exceeded 
whatever I had heard before, — Henry's Travels. 



72 

Upon a little hillock's side, 

With cedar branches spreading o'er her, 
As if her slender form to hide, 

Where shrubs and flowers bloomed before her — 
Forming a most delightful spot, 
For one, whom all but one forgot. 

So lightly did our birch canoe* 
Steal o'er the bay of liquid blue, 
That easily was heard the song, 

That touched the very soul of feeling, 
As on the breeze it sighed along, 

And softly to the heart appealing, 
In words I never can forget, 
So sweet, their tones seem breathing yet. 

* The canoes of the Indians are remarkably light, and glide over 
the wave with as much ease as a sea-bird. They are made of birch 
bark, and of different sizes — carrying from two to eight or ten persons, 
together with their bedding, (which generally consists of buffalo, deer 
and bear skins) and all their hunting and fishing materials. — An Euro- 
pean is somewhat surprised to see on© of those vessels transported, from 
stream to stream, over hills, and through the forest, on the shoulders 
of an Indian — thus alternately carrying and being carried, as it best 
suits his convenience. 



7B 



SONG. 
Here now, beneath this lonely shade. 

Far, far from home, I sit reposing, 
And listen to the wild cascade, 

While evening's curtain round is closing, 
And every bird, with spirit gay, 
Sings, sweetly sings its vesper lay* 

Yet, oh ! how happy here to dwell, 

With my young Chief — my Indian lover—* 

And all this bosom's feeling tell, 
Of sorrows past, and dangers over, 

Until the heart again would feel 

New dreams of rapture o'er it steaL 

While now the sporting fire-flies play, 

Wliere from yon rock the streamlet gushes, 

Or frolic o'er the azure bay, 

Or pause among the bending rushes— 



74 

To me their joys awake again 
All that of pleasure can remain. 

The little frog* perched on the tree, 

As if to tell of pleasant weather, 
Sings its wild song in ecstacy, 

Till, meeting in concert together, 

* The Rana Arboria, or tree frog, called by the Indians Aiheiky, 
has certainly a most curious appearance, and particularly by the small 
music bag, which becomes extended under its neck, when in the act 
of singing. To a stranger, when travelling through the lonely forests 
of America, and especially in the twilight, the thrilling voice of these 
little creatures awakens very unusual sensations. — The first I ever 
heard was on the bank of the River Moira, near Bellville, in Upper 
Canada ; and being anxious to know the author of sucli singular mu- 
sic, I went in search, and after some difficulty, arising from the cun- 
ning of the little creature — for it became silent on my approach — I 
found it perched close on the branch of a plum tree. Discovering, 
by its conduct, that it was no way solicitous about my visit, I instantly 
withdrew, and having concealed myself for a few minutes behind a 
large pine, it cheerfully resumed its accustomed song. Desirous, how- 
ever, of proving its shyness, I returned quietly to the plum tree, when, 
as before, it immediately became hushed, placing itself as flat as possi- 
ble on the branch. Several of the country people, with whom I con- 
versed respecting it, told me, that, Camelion-like, it assumes the co- 
lour of the place it rests — and generally, mounts the trees in search of 
insects. As it regards the one which I examined, its colour corres- 
ponded so exactly with the bark of the plum tree, that it required mi- 
nute search ($ discover the residence of the little minitrel, 



75 

The bull-toad, from the swamp remote, 
Sends forth a louder— harsher note. 

But here upon the evening air — ■ 
The verdure of the forest shaking— 

I'll breathe affection's fervent prayer, 
The soul's best sympathies aval:. 

With hopes that my young hero Chief 

May never feel the pain of grief. 



Soon as we heard the closing sound, 
And gently gained the rising ground, 
We slow advanced, to steal a view 

Of one, whose voice had rapture in it, 
And then, the waving branches through, 

We cast a look each anxious minute — 
And oh ! what joy does heaven confer — 
'Twas Ta-poo-ka — the loved — sat there ! 
g2 



76 

And he — the brave, the Chieftain guide, 
Who stood confounded by my side — 
Was that young Sioux who had strayed 

On Huron's banks, his love-dirge singing, 
When Skenandow and I delayed, 

To hear him from his bosom bringing 
A mingled tide of woe and song, 
Unheeding as he moved along. 

A look — a pause — and then a start. 
Quick as the impulse of the heart, 
With all the frenzy of surprise, 

In her fond arms soon found him folded, 
While from their dark, their flowing eyes, 

Their mutual tears in one seemed moulded. 
And heaving throbs responsive move, 
In all the luxury of love. 

When joy's first burst was partly o'er, 
And former fears could spring no more^ 



77 

Then, to a path — not distant far- 
Lapped round a lovely mountain's border. 

O'er which the beauteous evening star. 
As if by heaven's special order, 

Had just now thrown its modest ray, 

To light our onward, shady way. 

At length, we reached her cabin-home, 

Close by a little river's foam, 

Whose banks were covered, here and there. 

With many wigwams, neatly lighted, 
And every flame now flung in air, 

From blazing pine-knots, all delighted* — ■ 
While fishing* torches distant gleam; 
And move like meteors o'er the stream. 



* Perhaps it may be well to observe, that the nets and fishing-lines 

of the Indians, are made of willow bark and nettles; those made of 
the latter are finer and smoother than if made with hempen thread. 
Their hooks are made of small bones, fixed in pieces of wood, split for 
that purpose, and tied round with the small roots of the spruce tree, 
which they call Wattap, and which they also use for sewing their 
bark canoes. 



78 

In every look, there seemed to be 
The winning smile of pleasantry, 
Until they heard the saddened tale, 

Which Ta-poo-ka, with tears, related 
There to the matron of the vale, 

And all who with her round were seated, 
On skins of softest down, that grows, 
Where some young seraph might repose. 

Five summer suns had passed away, 
Since that, almost destructive, day, 
When, rather than the youth forsake, 

To whom her every feeling bound her, 
She plunged in Huron's- swelling lake — 

Where three kind Chippawas first found her, 
Whom chance alone had brought to save, 
And snatch her from a liquid grave. 

The story of her grief was such, 

As ever must the heart-strings touch- 



79 

While sympathy can linger there— 
Or man can claim a noble feeling, 

To dignify his soul, and share 

The woes which others seem revealing — 

Such woes, as wrecked a heart as fine 

As on the western sun could shine. 

Like some lone flower upon a rock, 
Which lately felt the light'ning's shock, 
And faintly lifts its head unseen, 

Or on the blast its leaves now throwing, 
Conveyed where happier mates, in green, 

Are ail in richest beauty glowing — ■ 
Her faded form so blighted seemed, 
Where eyes of loveliest girls* beamed. 



* The Chippawas are a handsome, well-made people. The wo- 
men have agreeable features, and take great pains in dressing their 
feair — which consists in neatly dividing it on the forehead, and in paint- 
ing and turning it up behind. — Hjgnrx's Travels, 



80 

In this neat cabin of the Chief, 
Whose wife and daughters gave relief, 
She quietly remained till now — 

Nor seldom ever further taking 
Her footsteps, than that mountain's brow, 

Her evening visits lonely making, 
Because it looked so like the same, 
On Huron's banks from whence she came. 

Each circumstance — of time and place — 
For one short month we loved to trace, 
And from the Sachems* gather all 

Their deeds of war, and feats of glory, 
Till we had heard their rise and fall — 

Which must unfold a saddened story, 
To a wiser — happier age — 
Traced on some future poet's page. 



* These are the Magii, or wise men of the Indians— and generally 
decide all their councils. 



81 

Thus were we pleasingly detained, 
While beauteous Ta-pqo-ka regained 
Her wonted charms, till day, by day, 

She seemed a more engaging creature, 
And one, that well might lure away 

The feeling heart — while every feature; 
Tinged with a soft, a brownish hue, 
The spirit pure shone lovely through, 

The sculptor's polished chisel yet 

A finer model never set — 

Nor has the connoisseur surveyed 

Correcter lines, on eastern beauties, 
Than, unadorned, are here displayed, 

In all the light of native duties — 
Where eyes beam forth — like evening's star- 
Than night's dark essence darker far. 

The scene — the place — the happy hour- 
Reminded much of Milton's bower ; 



82 

Where first the parent of mankind 

Conducted Eve — with beauty blushing, 

And feelings pure, and unconfined, 
As yon pellucid stream, now gushing 

From the lovely arbour's side, 

Clear as was then Euphrates' tide. 

And here is seen the caraboo, 
The elk, and wild deer, roving through 
The silent forest's deep'ning shade— 

Nor distant is the swan — renewing 
Pride, which for herself was made — 

Now, in the liquid mirror viewing 
A graceful form — much whiter still 
Than snow flakes on the Alpine hill. 

While others feel the magic hand 

Of love, their every thought command — 

My 'raptured soul delights to trace, 

The charms which beauty round discloses, 



83 

Throughout this sweet, romantic place> 

To where the lily calm reposes, 
Now on its half reclining stem, 
Supporting Nature's purest gem, 

And how the eye delights to see, 
The humming-bird,* from tree to tree? 
So nimbly flit, till it can find 

Some blushing rose, with nectar in it, 
Where, on a wing more fleet than wind, 

It banquets for a little minute. 



* This is one of the prettiest little creatures among the feathered 
tribe. There are many species of them ; but the smallest seems no 
larger than the wild black bee, which it imitates in feeding on the 
purest flowers. The richest fancy of the most luxuriant painter could 
never invent any thing to be compared to the beautiful tints with which 
this little miniature insect bird is arrayed. The wings are a deep 
green, and throw a variety of shades. The fine downy feathers on its 
head are embellished with the purest yellow, the most perfect azure 5 
and dazzling red. When feeding, it appears immoveable, though 
continually on the wing, having its long fine bill dipped into the 
heart of the most delicate rose without the slightest injury, while its 
eyes appear like little diamonds sparkling in the morning sunbeam. 
It is very restless, and seldom perches for more than a few seconds at 
a time, 



84 

Then quickly off it darting goes. 
To seek elsewhere another rose. 

And oh ! how charming is the bliss — 
So seldom felt — -so pure as this, 
Where in the forest's bosom far, 

From Europe's crimes, and Europe's errors, 
Beneath the glowing western star, 

The Indian dwells secure from terrors — * 
And by his streams, or by his lakes, 
His path of independence takes. 

Such were the joys here now displayed, 
Where'er I turned, where'er I strayed, 
Until imagination took 

A full repast — and backward turning 



* We and our kindred tribes — observe the Indians — lived in peace 
and harmony with each other, before the white people came into this 
country— our Council-house extended far to the north and far to the 
south. In the middle of it we would meet from all parts to smoke the 
pipe of peace together. 



85 

To Ta-poo-ka, one cheering look, 

Where two dark eyes, in beauty burning, 
Reminded — in my airy flight — 
I'd been a stranger to their light. 

To Ou-ka-kee, the good, the kind — ■ 
A noble Chief of noble mind— 
Alkwanwaugh now his story told, 

And of his bride, long since intended — 
And how five seasons past had rolled, 

Since she that frowning cliff ascended, 
At whose dark base she sought a grave, 
Deep in the bosom of the wave. 

Keen sorrow touched the brave man's heart, 
To hear Alkwanwaugh thus impart 
The tale of w T oe — which raises still, 

In manly hearts a fount of feeling, 
And, like some pure — some holy thrill, 

Comes o'er the soul, divinely stealings 

H 



86 

Until the very joy of grief. 

Brings forth its own — its sweet relief 

Alkwanwaugh was a Sioux famed— 
In many battles honours claimed — 
And closely by his mother's side ? 

To Atsistari was related — 
That hero, long the hero's pride, 

Than whom was never yet created, 
A nobler Chieftain for the field — 
A lion heart, unknown to yield. 

When Ou-ka-kee — who shared this place* 
And all the richness of the chase, 
With Ta-poo-ka — the well-beloved — 

And ever valued as his daughter — 
Had heard the tale — and deeply moved — 

For to this spot himself had brought her- 
He said, such hearts deserved his care. 
And should his home and cabin share, 



87 

From hut to hut the tidings flew— 
The marriage of the happy two— 
The wished for day — the very hour 

By every tongue was soon repeated— 
And e'en the lovely maple bower. 

Close by the hill — where last defeated^ 
The white man breathed his life a way- 
Would be the spot of pleasure gay. 

From woods^ — from streams, they gathered all 

The dainties for the festival, 

Till gifts on gifts, brought from the chase, 

Had fully stored the Chieftain's dwelling — . 
And in each look you well might trace 

The tide of joy, so gayly swelling, 
Where every youth had longed to see 
Of spousal love the jubilee. 

The day arrived' — midst scenes as sweet 
As e'er the heart or eye could meet™ 
h2 



88 

And every rose that purely threw 
Its richest fragrance on the morning, 

There bore a lovelier — brighter hue. 
Where violets seemed no less adorning 

The blushing beauty of the grove, 

Now made the peaceful home of love. 

Such soft attraction seemed to run 
In every blossom — where the sun 
Had mildly thrown his gentle beam — 

We to the mountain's summit wandered. 
Close by a little dimpling stream, 

That slowly to the vale meandered? 
Where we a distant view might take 
Of Erie's wide? extended lake. 

Then down the sloping brow we strayed, 
To where the bay close by displayed 
A gentle rippling on its breast, 

And seemed to yield a double pleasure? 



89 

To that, which on our hearts was pressed. 

When we had heard, in fairy measure. 
The sweetest tones, like magic glide, 



From her, the loved — the chosen bride. 



While winding round the silent shore, 
To that lone spot, where once before 
We fondly went, to catch one view 

Of her, who, then unknown, was singing, 
And with her incantation drew 

The pliant heart — and nearer bringing — 
We saw, far o'er the water's brim, 
Another bark, as lightly skim. 

It being now almost the hour, 
When we must to the wedding bower 
Direct our steps — where sure to meet 

Great Chieftains, who had been invited, 
With lovely girls — so lovely, sweet- — 

As showed each heart was well delighted- 



90 

That longer here we could not stay — 
But enter on our homeward way. 

Yet, still we paused — to watch the sail. 
So steady in the gentle gale, 
Pursue its path, along the line, 

That seemed the sky and water bounding, 
Then near, and nearer still incline, 

Where other prospects were surrounding — 
And we could take a clearer view 
Of those who steered the swift canoe. 

A minute — and one minute more, 
It touched the margin of the shore, 
Close by the spot where we remained, 

So fondly on its movements gazing — 
And when the beach three heroes gained, 

We heard them all its beauties praising, 
Till, in an open space below, 
We saw the noble Skenandow 1 



91 

So unexpected was the sight, 
Our bosoms filling with delight, 
We hurried to the happy green, 

And, with the heart's most fervent feeling, 
Repeated joys, now felt* — now seen — 

Until a tear came gently stealing. 
From Ta-poo-ka's dark, flowing eye, 
Precursor of a broken sigh. 

It was the tear of pleasing grief. 

That flowed to bring the heart relief— 

And like the dewy mist that plays — 

As if a liquid mantle throwing — 
Before the sun's sweet cheering rays 

Yet leaves the beam more lovely glowing — 



* I was thinking here of what Horace so beautifully says in hh 
Pindaric Ode, addressed to Iulus : — 

Nunc mets, si quid loqiiar audiendum , 
Vocis accedet bona pars ; et 6 Sol 
PidcJur, 6 laudande, canam, recepto 
C&sare Felix, 



92 
So, when the darkling tear was o'er, 
Her beauty shone redoubled more. 

Of all the charms that pleasure throws 
One moment o'er the gloom of woes, 
There never yet came one so sweet 

As that which now appears so splendid, 
And brings the heart again to meet 

What heaven alone for man intended, 
Unfolding, in one day like this, 
A happy age of purest bliss. 

The worthy Chiefs, with noble pride, 
Conducted by the lovely bride, 
Now onward take their forest way, 

To join the cheerful wedding party, 
Where smiling Indian girls play, 

And echo tells the laugh as hearty — 
As if to please the happy throng, 
Where merry pleasure sports along. 



93 

When Skenandow, and Ou-ka-kee ; 
Had joined in conversation free — 
For they to each were proudly known. 

Long having stood in war together— 
And having many whites o'erthrown. 

By lakes, by woods — no matter whether— 
Around the noble warriors two, 
Each youthful heart attentive drew.* 

Though I have witnessed fancied joys, 
And etiquette, which pleasure cloys — 
Before this real blissful hour, 

None ever had such transport in it 
As that which sanctifies this bower. 

Where I can see, in one short minute, 
A world of peace — a world of love — 
A type of all that dwells above. 

* Nothing seems to afford the Indian so much pleasure as the rela- 
tion of his noble exploits in war. The young men gather round the old 
warriors, and listen to their stories with all the delight of a proud en- 
thusiasm. 



94 

The wedding over— and unseen 
The holy rites* — and all between- 



* The Indians are by no means willing to allow a white man the 
privilege of witnessing their marriage ceremonies — believing that such 
an act would not only be displeasing to the Great Spirit, but render 
the married couple very unfortunate and miserable through life. 
They adhere closely to all their old forms of devotion, and find them- 
selves happier in their " wild nativity,' ' than under the hypocritical 
sophism of their saddle-bag inspired preachers. — " Why," (observes 
the author of " Sketches among the Indians,") "therefore, ought 
they to depart from the worship of their forefathers, and follow the 
religion called Christian ? As under the name of that religion, and 
from those who professed it, had they experienced all their wrongs and 
sufferings, and had arrived at their present wasted condition 1 Sure- 
ly, they should not embrace a faith that would tolerate such wicked- 
ness. What treaty had Christians kept with them ? What just prin- 
ciples had they not violated ? Had they not despoiled them of their 
lands, of their hunting grounds, of their lakes, and their mountains ? 
Had they not slain their young and their old warriors ? Had they 
not taught them to act worse than the beasts of the forest, by the use 
of spirituous liquors ? Did they not give them rum, to cheat and de- 
ceive them — to take from them their fields and their skins ? And 
had they not derived loathsome diseases, and other evils, from those 
professing Christianity." — These remarks I have seen fully verified 
during eleven years residence in America. Nor do I hesitate to say, 
that, in proportion to the intimacy carried on between the white man 
and the Indian, so fur does the latter seem to have seriously suffered 
in his morals, and in the total destruction of that noble and independ- 
ent spirit which so honourably distinguished such Indian heroes as 
Pontiac, Corn Plant, Logan, Atsistart, O-ma-ha, Tsa-wa- 
wan-hi, Skenandow, Red Jacket, Tecumseh, and countless 
others. 



95 

Because inferior is the name— 
And I believe a just recorder— 

Of Christian — honoured by his fame 

Who first for peace brought foul disorder. 

And in Religion's pathway threw 

Sectarian seeds, which rankly grew. 

Ye jarring Creeds-men* why thus strive 

To keep the impious flame alive— 

That flame which discontent has brought. 

And even now its crusade making. 
In crimes like these yourselves have taught— 

The social tie of friendship breaking — * 



* A striking display of Indian character occurred sonic years . = 
in a town in Maine. An Indian of the Kennebeck tribe, remax 

for his good conduct, received a grant of land from the State, and fixed 
himself in a new township, where a number of families were settled. 

— Though not ill-treated, yet the common prejudice against Indians 
prevented any sympathy with him. This was shown on the death of 
his only child, when none of the people came near him. Shortly af- 
ter, he gave up his farm, dug up the body of his child, and carried it 
with him two hundred miles through the forest, to join the Canadian 
Indians.— Tudor' s Letters on the Easteivi States of America 
There are no people in the world fonder of their children and rela- 



96 

Because to you, you think is given 
A nigber way to march to heaven ! ! * 



lions than the Indians. In many instances, they have Leen known to 
cairy, on their backs, their aged and helpless parents, through all the 
privations and difficulties of life ; and, among many of the wandering 
tribes that I visited, I have found very old men, quite unable to pro- 
vide for themselves, who had been tenderly conveyed, by their families, 
through all their different stations, and hunting grounds, with the 
greatest care and affection. — I note this particularly, as Thomas 
Moore, the first poet of the age, seems to have had a very unfavour- 
able opinion of Indian tenderness and sympathy, when he observed, in 
his advertisement to the fifth number of the Irish Melodies, "that 
the Indians put their relatives to death when they become feeble." 
Mr. Moore must have collected this information from the enemies 
of the poor Indians, when travelling through the United States, in 
1804 ; but a personal knowledge of the Aboriginies of America would 
have caused his manly and independent mind to have spoken in a dif- 
ferent style, wi4;h regard to the noble, but much injured, sons of the 
forest. The Indians belonging to Great Britain have an utter dislike 
to the Yankees — as the Americans are called. Nor am I surprised at 
this feeling — for there is scarce a day but brings them some cruel ac- 
counts of the destruction and massacre of their brethren in the United 
States — and, even at this moment, in Georgia, the poor Indian k 
hunted from his home, and barbarously murdered — while those who 
are under the protection of the British Government enjoy comfort, 
peace, and happiness, "Well, then, might the poor Kennebeck Indian 
carry the bones of his little child to a wel comer grave among the un- 
disturbed forests of Canada. 

* Juvenal must have had] a very unfavourable opinion of the hu- 
man race, when he thus said : — Rari quippe boni : numero vix sunt 
totide??i, quot Thebarum porta?, vet divitis osiia Nili. 



97 

But here, what joyous rapture seems 
In every eye that brightly beams ? 
Where melody as freely strays 

From youthful tongues,* now breathing pleasure, 
As from the scarlet-bird, that plays 

From branch to branch — while music's treasure, 
Comes, like the fabled harp, that sings 
To every breeze that sweeps its strings. 

Now, on a fallen trunk of pine 

One peaceful moment to recline, 

And view such joys — beyond control — > 

Wakes in the heart some sweet emotion^ 
Like that which cheers the Persian's soul, 

In tranquil hours of pure devotion— 
Who only asks to love and see, 
The image of his Deity. 

* There is a peculiar softness in the singing of the young Indian girls. 
The first time I heard the songs of these daughters of the forest, was during 
a visit to Capt. W*****rns, of H. M. R. N,, at his cottage on the Bay 
of Quintie— -and never were music, time and place so happily blended. 



98 

The dance* — the laugh — the pleasing flush 
Of joy, which through their bosoms rush. 
Proclaim the bliss of one and all — 

Nor ever yet was seen so splendid. 
Nor such a wedding festival — 

Nor joys, with joys so purely blended— 
As crowns the lovely — loving pair, 
With all the soul could wish or share. 



* Dancing is one of the most favourite amusements of the Indians— 
-and exhibits to an European something more singularly grand than he 
has ever been accustomed to witness among the artificial assemblies of 
a more polished, but a less interesting people. With the Indian, the 
pure feelings of the heart are the only guide in the happy hour of his 
playful festivities — which are unencumbered by that cold reserve and 
mawkish ceremony, practised in the studied dance of our own speculat- 
tiiries. By the request of a Huron Queen, I attended one of their 
parties, in the summer of 1826 ; and had the honour of being intro- 
duced, by her, to several Chiefs belonging to the Iroquois and Algon_ 
quin tribes— who came distinctly for the purpose of joining in the 
pleasure of the appointed dance. It was a most delightful evening in 
the month of June— and the wild, romantic scenery of the place where 
they were assembled, added doubly to the anticipated joys, while a full, 
yellow moon emerged, in all the majesty of beauty, from behind the 
lofty trees of the forest, and flung her magic beams along the curling 
waters of a lovely bay, on whose tufted banks all were now happily 
seated. A large pine log, about eight yards long, being rolled on the 
green, the party commenced dancing round it, answering, occasional- 



99 

But, hush ! — that watch-dog seems to say 
Some stranger comes, unknown, this way- 
Yes — yes — I see— I plainly hear 

Each oar now in the current plying — ■ 
And there, five other boats appear, 

With men, to gain the shore fast trying- 
It is an enemy ! — to arms — 
The war-whoop, at one breath, alarms., 

Now, Chiefs and heroes firmly stand, 
Prepared to meet the first command^ 



ly, in responses, to the Chief who conducted the ceremony, holding in 
his hand a horn filled with small pebbles — which, by alternately shak- 
ing, and striking against the palm of the left hand, afforded a kind of 
music, which appeared to be well understood by the dancers. Other 
individuals, seated at a distance, played on instruments made of dress- 
ed deer-skins, fixed on a round hoop — and, though not very harmonious, 
still it seemed to correspond with the idea of the first progress of mu- 
sic, and conjured up to me the image of the Arcadian Fax, with all 
his lovely shepherdesses, dancing to the music of his enchanting reed. 
The Indian war-dance is one of the grandest displays an European 
can witness — and I regret, that a work so limited as this, deprives me 
of the pleasure I would feel in giving a full description of it to my 
readers. 



i2 



100 

And teach the Christian soon to know 

The danger of his foul intrusion- 
Till, from the tomahawk, one blow 

Shall pay him for the dire confusion 
He to the Indian oft has given, 
And all to claim the love of heaven ! 

Man stands 'gainst man, in dreadful strife ; 
Till ebbs the flowing tide of life — 
And long, and doubtful seemed the day. 

On either side so well contended — 
Nor gained, nor gave an inch away, 

Till dead, and dying, lay extended, 
In mangled ruin on the shore, 
With human blood empurpled o'er I 

Close by the border of the stream 
I see a battle-axe quick gleam, 
And throw its flashes o'er the wave — 

'Tis Skenanpow's— its death-blows giving- 



101 

And he who meets it, meets his grave, 
Nor longer shall disturb the living — 
It is the lightning of his course — 
No human arm can stop its force. 

Thus, while the contest is maintained, 
By neither won, by neither gained— 
The great Tecumseh* hurries o'er, 
Just in the fury of the action — 



* This celebrated warrior belonged to the Skawanese tribe, that 
inhabited the territory on the borders of Lake Michigan, until they 
were all nearly annihilated by an armed body of Americans — who, in 
the dead hour of night, rushed upon them, on the banks of the Wa- 
bash, and destroyed every thiDg that came in their way, without re- 
gard to either sex or age, with more than a savage ferocity. Tecum- 
seii, however, fortunately escaped, and, with the few that remained, 
crossed the upper Lakes to the -British possessions, and joined the 
Hurons — one of the finest tribes that belongs to the Indian Na- 
tion. — Teccmseh, although not much over thirty years of age, was, 
from his brave and manly conduct, appointed head Chief of th : s dis- 
tinguished tribe — a circumstance that but seldom occurs among In- 
dians, as they are very particular in conferring that honour on the aged 
and experienced warriors of their respective bodies, — In the winter of 
1812, Tecoiseh and his Hurons joined the army of General Proctor, 
against the " Long Knives" — a name by which they still designate 



13 



102 

Directly from the other shore, 

With heroes roused to keen distraction — 
Whose vengeance, bursting on each white, 
Decide the horrors of the fight. 



the Americans — and, in 1813, had upwards of three thousand selected 
warriors under his command. But the Napoleon of the West had not 
long to live — his glorious career was now hurrying to its close — and 
on the 5th of October, 1814, while heroically leading on his brave 
companions, in a desperate engagement, fought between the British 
and the Americans, at the Moravian Village, on the banks of the 
River Thames, in Upper Canada, he received his death shot — and, in 
the very moment when courageously maintaining the contest against 
the left of the American line, after the cowardly Proctor had fled, 
leaving the flag of Great Britain alone to be defended by the brave, 
but unsupported Indians^ against the overwhelming numbers of a pow- 
erful enemy. After the battle, thirty-three distinguished Indian war- 
riors were found dead on the field — and among them, the famous 
Tecumseh! — Before the death of this noble Chief, of which, it ap- 
pears, he had some presentiment, it is said, that, in one of his speeches, 
he, in the name of the Nation, charged the Hurons never to select his 
son — a lad then about fifteen years of age — as their Chief — adding, 
that, although very fond of the boy, "he was too fair, and too much 
like a white man." What a lesson might civilized nations learn from 
this untutored Indian, who thus threw aside all parental prejudices, 
when put in competition with the happiness and safety of his Country — 
believing, that as an Indian approached, in look and features, the 
white Christian, he must also resemble him in perfidy and in wicked- 
ness 1 Too just a reason had the brave Tecoiseh for such a con- 
clusion ! 



103 

And now, the crackling flames are seen, 
In columns, rolling far between 
The poncTrous branches of the pine, 

Till onward through the forest rushing, 
Where beasts no longer can recline — 

And heaven s distant arch seems blushing, 
As if illum'd by Etna's flame, 
Far o'er the crater whence it came. 

While here the foaming torrent roars, 
And dashes round the rugged shores, 
The timid deer starts from his lair, 

And o'er the mountain's summit bounding. 
Avoids the rage of horror there, 

And scenes now dismall} r surrounding 
That spot, where he so late could roam, 
And find a peaceful forest home. 

The sullen murmur of the breeze, 
That eddies through the falling trees ; 



104 

Comes like the pensive dirge of woe, 
Or death-notes deepest anguish waking, 

When doomed the soul's last struggling throe 
To hear, or see from nature breaking, 

Leaving a gloomy wreck behind, 

No more to pain or earth confined, 

And now, the dying white man's groan, 
Unpitied, and unwept — alone — 
Breaks on the ear — and now his prayer 

To heaven he seems for mercy raising, 
With lips that scarcely breathe the air, 

And eyes but faintly upwards gazing, 
Till the unerring* feathered dart 
Drains the last life-drop from the heart. 



* I have often been surprised, when travel ling through the immense 
forests of America, to see with what precision a young Indian boy 
raises -his bow, and in an instant drives the arrow into a squirrel, wood- 
pecker, or some other bird, perched on the highest tree. 



105 

Before the sable skirt of night 
Had closed upon the dismal sight— 
Of all the Christian foe-men, three 

Alone remain to weep their errors,* 
And ruin's dark reality, 

Which stalked with unexampled terrors- 
While in each look of deadly hate, 
They read their own impending fate. 

It is a foul — unholy crime , 
Stamped on the open page of time— - 
To plunder Nature's humble child 

Of all the gifts for him intended, 
And scattered through his forest wild, 

Till Christian charity extended 
Her bounteous hand, and made him know, 
For bliss exchanged — a real woe if 

* Every classical reader will recollect the sentiment of Juvenal— 
Nil erit ulteruis, quod nostris moribus addat posteritas. 

| It is worthy of remark, that the Boetkic, or Red Indians, once a 
numerous and a powerful tribe, inhabiting the western shores of New- 



106 

The Missionary evils brought, * 
By those who first Religion taught — 
Forgive the phrase — had more of hell — - 
And all the crimes with it connected - 



foundland, and the coasts of Labrador, are now almost extinct — and 
the few that remain, scarcely known to the inhabitants. It ap- 
pears, that about a century and a half ago, the Boethic Indians, and 
the Micmacs, a neighbouring tribe, lived in the greatest harmony and 
friendship, until some unfortunate occurrence sprung up between the 
Boethics and the French. A reward was offered for the heads of 
some of those poor Indians ; and the Micmacs, by the influence of 
liquor, and other gifts, were persuaded to undertake the barbarous act. 
The Micmacs succeeded in murdering two of their unsuspecting neigh - 
bours; but, before the heads were delivered to the Erench, they 
were discovered in a canoe by the relatives of the poor sufferers — who, 
disguising all knowledge of this treacherous cruelty, invited the Mic- 
macs to a feast, and arranged their guests in such a way, that every 
Boethic had a Micmac by his side — and, at a preconcerted signal, 
every man slew his guest. — A desperate war afterwards ensued ; but, 
as the Micmacs were provided, by the French, with fire-arms — a thing 
entirely unknown to the Boethics — of course, an undisputed ascendan- 
cy was soon gained. The Boethics, or Red Indians, being thus con- 
quered, fled into the recesses of the forest, where they have remained 
till this day, fearing, and justly hating, the pale face of every civil- 
ized Christian. 

* I consider these people— says Mackenzie— as having been, 
morally speaking, great sufferers, from their communication with the 
subjects of civilized nations, 



107 

Than ever yet were known to dwell 

With those oft called the lost — neglected- 
The barb'rous Indian — Savage race — ■ 
The outcasts of the human race ! 

Yet, while the independent soul 
Can fairly here survey the whole. 
And take a broad — but candid view, 

Of times gone by — and darkest sorrows, 
Which now the Indian's days pursue. 

The very pain that sadness borrows. 
Awakes a feeling deadlier far, 
Than ever roused the breast of war. 

Now in the twilight's thick 'ning g!oom ; 
Three whites remain to know their doom. 
While by the fragments of the dead, 

Each hero Chieftain sadly pauses > 
Or with a slow and solemn tread. 

Surveys the evils, and their can* 



108 

Until the throb, and bursting swell, 
The heart's dark ruin here can tell. 

What ! — do I see a female there, 
Amid the horror of despair ? — . 
Tis faithful Ta-poo-ka, alone, 

Now seeking for her Sioux lover — 
And ah ! I hear his dying moan, 

And see her bending sadly over 
The noble youth — till, clasped in death, 
She joins with his, her parting breath ! 

Oh ! hapless pair ! — dark fate has cast 
The death-shade o'er your brows at last— 
And all the throbbings of the heart; 

Are hushed in gloomy peace forever — = 
No more with rapture's thrill to starts 

Ah, no L~Jife's spark again shall never 
Awake, 'mong clouds so foul as those. 
Which on this day's sad ruins close, 



109 

How dismally among the leaves. 

Is heard the murmuring breath* of night, 
Like the last sigh the bosom heaves, 

Caught by some angel in its flight, 
Who, leaving its own happy sphere. 

In pity to man's great distress, 
Comes on a holy mission here, 

To those who sleep in wretchedness. 

The moon is up, and through the clouds 

Collected round her palely form, 
Like mist which some dark fiend enshrouds, 

Before the bursting of the storm — 
Now takes her dull and cheerless rout, 

Along the gloomy arch of heaven, 
Where not a single star looks out, 

To cheer the dismal frowns of even. 



* There is a melancholy grandeur in the hollow breathings of the 
winds, passing over the foaming cascades, till lost in the distant echoes 
of the forest, that creates a peusLvenessinthe heart, of which, only those 
who have heard, can for one moment form the slightest conception. 



110 

And from the cloud-capped mountain high ? 

Where now the fearless eagle sleeps, 
The stream sends forth a broken sigh, 

While tumbling down the rugged steeps— 
And from the hollow, blasted pine, 

Where heaven's lightning played along, 
And wild grapes close their tendrels twine, 

Comes forth the screech-owl's boding song. 

There's scarce a sound, or motion here, 

But wandering breezes now and then. 
That slowly steal upon the ear, 

In broken murmurs from the glen— 
The Lake enjoys a dreamy rest, 

And all upon its waters — save 
The pelican's soft bosom, pressed 

By gentle throbbings of the wave* 

Yet, ah ! how changed the sunny hour? 
When Ta-poo-ka, the trembling bride., 



Ill 

Stood by the Water-God's deep bower,* 

With her young Sioux at her side- 
Where, dancing onward as it goes, 

They viewed the liquid Curtain s\ foam 3 



* There is a belief among the Indians, that a Spirit presides at all 
their great cascades and waterfalls — and to this Deity they frequently 
make sacrifices. According to Ovid, a similar opinion seems to have 
prevailed among the ancients. 

Rcec domus, hcec sedes, hose sunt penetralia magni 
Amnis : in hoc residens facto de cautibus antro, 
Undis Jura dahit, nymphisaue colentious undas. 

f This idea occurred to me en viewing the falls of the Rideau, or 
Curtain— which tumble beautifully over a perpendicular rock of about 
fifty feet, into the Ottawa, at a short distance below the flourishing 
village of Bytowx. — The river RIdeau — from which the great Canal 
derives its name — is about four hundred yards wide directly above the 
Falls, and forms altogether a most delightful prospect. It was in one of 
those charming evenings, which are so inviting, in the month of August, 
when the setting sun seems to linger with admiration on the sur- 
rounding scenery of the forest, that I first found myself standing by the 
side of this romantic cataract. Here, while gazing on the foaming 
waters, and the beautiful tints of the arched rainbow, so enchanting'. y 
thrown across their bosom, I felt as if enjoying the pleasing magic of 
some fairy home. But the poet's joys are merely momentary — he is 
the child of impulse — too much given to association and reflection — 
for, scarcely had I been fanned by the refreshing breeze of the beau- 
teous waterfall, than a contrast with my own loved mountain-stream, 
which first attracted the light steps of my boyhood, presented itself, 
with ail the original happiness of days, which now only exist on the 
broad waste of a too faithful recollection. 



k2 



112 

Just where the tinted rainbow throws 
An archway o'er his fairy home. 

But, sleep ! — no war-whoop e'er shall break 

The silence of this last repose, 
Nor cause that noble heart to wake, 

Which fell the victim of its foes ! 
Ah, no ! — then let Alkwanwaugh's shade, 

And Ta-poo-ka's undying name, 
Still have such tributes to them paid 

As souls, like theirs, unsullied claim. 



Now let the Christian white men, three, 
Fast pinioned to that bas-wood tree, 
To wait the tomahawk's aimed blow, 

For crimes that should not be forgiven- — 
Declare, ere forced to undergo 

The mandate of avenging heaven, 
If now, they do not deeply feel 
Their conscience-horrors o'er them steal. 



113 

A ghastly gloom encircles all 

Who sleep beneath night's dark'ning pall 

Their last, long sleep— and not a sound 

Disturbs this tranquil hour of sorrow. 
Save the cascade's echoing round 

The hollow cliffs — as if to borrow. 
From the bleak caverns as they go : 
Responses for their dirge of woe. 

But now, close by that maple grove, 

I see a flame ascend above 

The wide spread branches — and the light 

Gleam on warriors round it standing — ■ 
Tis the great Council-fire of night, 

And. bv its signal, now commanding 
All the brave Chieftains quickly there, 
To tell the whites their doom, and where. 

Among the youthful heroes all. 

It was agreed the whites should fall. 



114 

And that the tomahawk alone, 

Directed by a hand unerring, 
Should make them for their wrongs atone — 

Deep wrongs, which now demand repairing- 
And that Alkwanwaugh's noble shade, 
Must have the offering to it paid. 

The foul invaders of our rights — 

These cold — unfeeling — Christian whites — 

Who seek the Indian to destroy, 

And blot away his name and nation — 
Shall never more our peace annoy. 

Which long has been their occupation — * 



* " Although the Indians have suffered a great deal of abuse, they 
are," observes Mackenzie, "naturally mild and affable, as well as 
just in their dealings, not only among themselves, but with strangers. 
They are also generous and hospitable, and good natured in the ex- 
treme, except when their nature is perverted by the inflammatory in- 
fluence of spirituous liquors. They have been called thieves — but 
when that vice can, with justice, be attributed to them, it may be 
traced to their connection with the civilized people who come into 
their country to traffic." 



115 

No — no — each now must lose bis head, 
T'appease our brother heroes dead. 

Our hunting grounds — our streams — our lakes, 

The white usurper freely takes, 

And all the Indian's God* has given — 

Nor does he, in his rapid plunder, 
Think of our wives, and children, driven 

Far, far from home — and torn asunder. + 
Or seeking food we cannot give, 
To bid their little spirits live. 

The captives now, with downcast eyes, 
As reading their own obsequies, 



* Here the young warrior might have addressed them in the lan- 
guage of Alcides — Kt sunt, qui credere possint esse deos 2 

f The white Christians having taken possession of the whole of the 
country which the Great Spirit had given us — one of our tribes was 
forced to wander far below Quebec — others, dispersed in small bodies, 
were obliged to seek places of refuge where they could — and some 
went far to the westward, and mingled with other tribes, — Relatio?u- 
of a Mohican Chief, 



Look downward still — while by the flame, 
Whose glaring light sometimes fell o'er them. 

Was seen the heavy brow of shame, 

Once never raised — and, just before them. 

War's last deciding Council stood, 

Embosomed in the darkling wood. 

Come, said a youth, of noble look, 
As he his sheaf of arrows shook? 
Come, give the word — this pointed dart, 

Sent from my bow-string,^ faithful ever, 
Shall quickly reach the foe-man's heart, 

And all life's chords unerring sever — 
My country's wrongs I must redress, 
Nor longer feel her wretchedness. 



* Perhaps it may be well to observe here, that the bow is made of 
cedar, six feet in length, with a short iron spike at one end, and serves 
occasionally as a spear. Their arrows are well made, barbed, and 
pointed with iron, flint, stone, or bone — they are feathered, and from 
two to two feet and a half in length. The Indians are excellent marks- 
men — seldom or never missing their object. 



117 

Fierce were the burning words that came, 

Like lava floods of living flame, 

From feeling's strong, but injured fount, 

When thus, each youth's keen eloquence, 
His Nation's evils would recount— 

Whose soul would be her bold defence, 
Or, perish in that Nation's fall, 
When ruin had encircled all. 

The rage that fired each youthful breast 

Subsided to a partial rest, 

As now the aged Sachems rise, 

In manly pride, to speak their feeling, 
And, to the Spirits of their skies, 

In most affecting words, appealing, 
Said — Hurons, spare I* give, give consent- 
Pardon these whites— they may repent. 



* Another instance of Indian generosity was displayed at the battle 
of Frenchtown, on the 22d of January, 1813, by Roundhead, the 
distinguished Wyandot Chief, who commanded upwards of six hundred 



118 



-" they may repent," 



Was soon by listening echoes sent 
Around La Cloche* — from flood to flood, 

O'er winding hills — to that great mountain, 
Where long the Indian's God hath stood, 

To list the murmurings of the fountain, 
While gushing forth beneath his feet, 
In haste some kindred stream to meet. 



■ 



Tecumseh spoke the words of peace 
With full persuasion,f to release 



warriors in that engagement against the Americans. Shortly after the 
commencement of the action 3 General Winchester, commander of the 
enemy's forces, was taken prisoner by this worthy Chief — and, without 
either tomahawking or scalping, delivered safely to the Colonel of the 
British troops. It is questionable, if Roundhead had fallen into the 
hands of his enemy, whether he would not have met a similar fate to 
that of the brave Tecumseh ! 

* There is an island on the skirts of Lake Huron, cabled, by the Ccr- 
na&ian Voyageurs, La Cloche, in consequence of a rock, standing- 
there on a plain, which, being struck, rings like a bell. 

t Well may it be said of Tecumseh, what the poet Ennius re- 
marked respecting Cethegus, the Roman orator — suadis medulla 
— for he possessed the very essence of persuasion. 



119 

The captive foe. — He would not shed 

A tyrant's blood, when conquered — standing 

In chains, like those who bend the head 
In sadness here — with grief commanding 

The finer feelings of the heart, 

To let them now unhurt depart, 

He paused — then cast his eyes of jet 
On Skexandow — who quickly met. 
With mutual glance, their magic power— 

And on Tecumseh's right hand turning. 
Now in this last — this tragic hour. 

Close by the flame's extensive burning., 
To take a view of friends and foes, 
And thus, his heart's pure thoughts disclose- 

White men ! — here, oftentimes have we 
Exchanged the Wampum* — set the tree— 



* Wampum. — This is the current money among the Indians : it is 

of two sorts, white and purple— the white is worked out of the inside: 



120 

The tree of peace — and tied the chain* 

Of friendship, which yourselves have broken 

Disgracefully — still to remain — 

And the hatchetf — the purest token 

Of Indian faith — by us long buried — 

You've foully raised, and to war carried. 

Through this long hair of raven dyej 
The winds oft wandered — and the sigh 



of the great Congues into the form of a bead, and perforated so as to 
be strung on leather — the purple is worked out of the inside of the 
muscle shell ; they are wove as broad as one's hand, and about two 
feet long. These tbey call belts, and give and receive them, at their 
treaties, as the seals of friendship. — Coldon. 

* The chain of friendship will now, we hope, be made strong, as 
you desire it to be. We will hold it fast, and our end of it shall ne- 
ver rust in our hands. — Speech of Corn Plant, the Seneca Chief.. 
to George Washington. 

f The Indians, at their treaties of peace, bury the war-axe, as a 
token of reconciliation — and never have they been known to violate 
the conditions stipulated. I am sorry that it is not in my power to give 
a similar character of their white neighbour::. 

| The Indians Lave long black hair, flowing loosely over their shoul- 
ders. It appears rather coarse — but this may be attributed to its being 



121 

Of grief has echoed far and near, 

Long since the Christian came, deceiving 

With kind words* — and many a tear 
Our children wept, for thus believing 

His artful smiles — nor dreamed that he 

Would be our cause of misery. 

But we forgive* — You may return — f 
Perhaps your wives and children mourn, 

so constantly exposed without any covering. Among the women who 
pay some attention to their hair, I have seen such glossy locks, waving 
in the breeze, as would call forth the admiration of a modern Carolan. 
It is very remarkable, that the oldest Indians whom I visited retained 
their raven locks, flowing, and as freshly coloured, as when in the full 
vigour of life — not like the puny whites of the present day, who become 
either bald or grey before they have time to put on the toga virilis. So 
much for luxury ! 

* Your speech written on the great paper, is to us like the first light 
of the morning to a sick man, whose pulse beats strongly in his tem- 
ples, and prevents him from sleeping — he sees it and rejoices, but is 
not cured. — Sjieech of Corn Plant, the Seneca Chief, to George 
Washington, 

f " To the pure all things are pure.*' — The Indians are a peacea- 
ble race of men — and an European may travel from one side of the 
continent to the other without experiencing insult, — 3VI. Ledxjc, 



122 

Like the poor squaw — when struck in death 
The hunter of the deer is lying — 

Or doomed to catch his parting breath 
While on the field of battle dying — 

Who, till his spirit mounts above, 

Still casts on her his looks of love ! 

Go — go— myself shall now unbind 
The Wattap, which has here confined 
Your blood-stained hands* — nor ever more 
Return, to bring the Huron sorrow? 



& The conduct of America towards the Indian tribes is dishonoura- 
ble, in the extreme, to her National Government. I cannot, however, 
comment better on this subject than by giving the following observa- 
tions of General Jackson, President of the United States, in his 
message to the House of Representatives, in 1829. 

"Professing & desire to civilize and settle them, (the Indians,) 
we have, at the same time, lost no opportunity to purchase their lands, 
and thrust them further into the wilderness. By this means, they have 
not only been kept in a wandering state, but been led to look on us as 
unjust, and indifferent to their fate. Their present condition, contrast- 
ed with what they once were, makes a powerful appeal to our sympa- 
thies. Our ancestors found them the uncontrolled possessors of the vast 
regions. By force, they have been made to retire from river to river, 
and from mountain to mountain, until some of the tribes have become 



123 

Or scatter round his woody shore 

The anguish of some future morrow — 
This, this we ask — nor further roam, 
To rob the Indian of his home,* 

extinct, and others have left but remnants, to preserve for a while their 

once terrible names. The fate of the Mohican, the Narragansett, and 

the Delaware, is fast overtaking the Choctaw, the Cherokee, and the 
Creek. Humanity and national honour demand that every effort 
should be made to avert so great a calamity." 

In quoting tiie language of the President, which accidentally fell in* 
to my hand, as this woik was about to issue from the press, I consider 
it one of my best authorities in support of what I have previously ad- 
vanced. I feel no wish to bear away from whatever merit America 
may possess ; but, regardless of consequences — should I even be de- 
nounced like Thomas Moore, Basil Hal], and others — I must say, that, 
would America throw aside her proverbial national vanity, and act 
more really, without the aid of 'prophecy ', she might redeem a great 
deal of her lost character, and no longer become the object of jest and 
ridicule to every intelligent traveller and historian, who thrives by her 
folly, and laughs at her presumption ! General Jackson very happi- 
ly uses the word "profession" — America always makes great profes- 
sions, but little execution — witness her ship-building transaction, to re- 
deem unfortunate Greece ! — Re o~oiiulandum, non verbis. 

There is a manly boldness and generous feeling displayed in every 
sentence which the noble President has uttered on this subject, of in- 
justice to the poor Indians, that at once discovers the benevolent feel- 
ings of a heart, which is not only brave in war, but kind in peace.— 
Such men as Jackson deserve well the h'gh honours of their country. 

* hi these four last stanzas, I have been obliged to sacrifice har- 
snoey, in order to preserve, as much as possible, the peculiar, short, 

l2 



124 

Thus far the Chief. — And from the tree — 
Once more set to their liberty — 
The whites retire — with steps as slow 

As steals the guilty heart from danger — 
And through the woods in silence go, 

Midst swamps and gloom — or like some ranger. 
When destined on his midnight prey, 
Too impious for the blaze of day. 

The clouds retiring seek the west, 
Like giant spirits to their rest — 
And now, the pale moon's* trembling beam, 
From out the walking elements, 



pithy phrases generally used by the best Indian orators. It is format- 
ter, not the sound, that I wish to communicate. 

* During a visit to Colonel John Macdonell, of Point Fortune, 
on the banks of the Ottawa, he mentioned, among a number of his in- 
teresting accounts of the Indians, that they generally consult the ap- 
pearance of the new moon, previous to their entering on their hunting 
excursions. If the moon presents herself horizontally, it betokens foul 
weather; but if in a perpendicular form, so as not to admit of any 
thing suspending from her horn, it inspires a good hope of a pleasant 



125 

Comes faintly shining o'er the stream,* 

On whose smooth verge some soul repents, 
And with each tear that sadly falls, 
The errors of this life recalls. 

Tecumseh and his heroes, brave, 
Now enter on the pulseless wave, 
And in their barks that lightly press 

The bosom of the tranquil waters- 
Much like some sea-god's soft caress, 

When round his pleasing smiles he scatters — 



and a successful chase. Col. Macdonell is one of those hearty, kind 
and interesting gentlemen, with whom a traveller soon forgets that he 
is a stranger. His door is the open vestibulum of hospitality, and no 
man ever visited it without a kind reception. After too short a visit, I 
took my departure — but not without the hearty shake of a friendly hand, 
and, on my part, a pledge to revisit this noble representative of a worthy 
Highland gentleman. 

* This idea occurred to me after travelling along the banks of the 
Schuylkill, where my fancy conjured up the image of my countryman, 
Thomas Moore, and presented his beautiful verses, written when, 
perhaps, like myself, straying along its winding banks, catching the 
first impressions that novelty and romantic scenery generally produce 
to attract the admiration of the poet. 



126 

Are, in one moment's airy flight, 
Beyond the distant reach of sight. 

And now, the remnant seek their home, 
Close by the cascade's noisy foam — 
Where, in some welcomed, calm repose, 

The wearied heart might cease its mourning, 
And half forget its latest woes,* 

Midst peaceful joys, in dreams returning, 
Until it felt that soothing bliss, 
Which makes life's days all happiness. 



* Although I have, in many instances, alluded to the unfeeling 
treatment of America towards the first proprietors of her soil — 
yet, I am far from considering but that many of her liberal and intel- 
ligent sons will heartily agree with the correctness of my observations. 
America is improving, and I wish well to her success, but, Indignor 
quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus. In my travels through that 
country, I had the honour of being introduced to some of her highly po- 
lished and most interesting gentlemen, among whom I will mention His 
Excellency C. P. Van Ness, the present minister to the Court of Spain. 
This gentleman is very conversant, and has a good knowledge of both 
men and things. There is a becoming ease and a gracefulness of man- 
ner in his address, which is certainly engaging, and gives a stranger a 
favourable opinion at his first interview with this very accomplished 
American. 



127 

But, as they took their onward way, 
A direful band that darkly lay 
In silent ambush, rushed upon 

The scattered Chiefs — nor ever making 
One minute's pause, till life was gone, 

But o'er the dead and dying breaking, 
Till Skenandow's brave arm had stayed 
The fury of the white man's blade. 

Alone the noble Huron stands, 

Amidst the crash of warring hands 

That round him throng — and e'en the three, 

The captive three, of Christian feeling ! 
So lately rescued from the tree, 

Surround the Chief — their death-blows dealing 
But ere his life's blood they could shed, 
Two fell among the mangled dead. 

Some now behind, and some before, 
Around the warrior hero pour, 



128 

Like demons of the raging storm — 
Yet, still majestic midst the foe, 

Was seen his bold, his manly form, 
There dealing death in every blow, 

Till — from the man he saved — a dart 

Had pierced the recess of his heart ! 

Skenandow fell ! — and calmly sleeps 

By Erie's darkling groves of pine, 
Where gently now the wild grape creeps, 

As if to guard the holy shrine — 
Nor shall his name be e'er forgot — 

But future bards, in songs of grief, 
Will sadly tell of that lone spot, 

Where rests the noble Huron Chief ! 



131 



TO CLARA, 



Where the wide spreading thorn 

Diffuses its shade, 
Oft, oft with my Clara 

I've pleasingly strayed— 

Or paused, while she culled, 
By the moon's trembling light, 

The primrose, or daisy, 
That slumbered in night. 

And dear were the pleasures 
Such minutes had given, 

To brighten our path. 
In a calm summer even* 



132 

But, like the soft joys 

That first hallow the heart. 
In love's early hour — 

Then haste to depart — 

So hurried the moments, 
That only could throw 

A beam on life's pathway, 
Long shadowed by woe e 

Yet, I still must remember 
The pleasures that flowed, 

And the heaven of love 
Which my Clara bestowed, 



135 

And. oh ! I stand upon the deck, 

To hear the rustling foam, 
That half conveys my sorrows back 

To my dear Irish home. 

And now, I watch thy mountains high, 

Above the ocean's brim, 
In graceful beauty touch the sky, 

Through closing night-shades dim, 
Till every vista disappears, 

And lost in evening's gloam, 
The twinkling star of night, that cheers 

My much loved Irish home. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF D- 



Oh ! do not curse the humble bard- 
He's poor enough without it — 

For if he said your heart is hard, 
There's very few will doubt it. 
m2 



136 
MONODY, 

TO THE SHADE OF LORD BYRON. 

True, thou hadst faults — and who has not ? 

But were thine still of deeper dye, 
Than crimes of some who share that spot 

Where thou wert deemed unfit to lie ? 
Ah, no ! — And yet to judge I dare 

Of every fruit which bears thy name, 
As well as he who would not spare 

One corner for thy deathless fame ! 
Yet, Westminster, in all her pride 

Of sculptured grandeur, never knew. 
Nor placed within her marbled side, 

A bard, whose claim's more justly due. 
Then, Byron ! until Time's last verge, 

The weeping muse the tale shall tell, 
And sigh thy melancholy dirge, 

Thou star of genius, loved too well* 



137 

Ah ! why say loved ? — has not the Dean—* 

With soul so pious, weighed thy worth- 
Refused thee all that could remain- 
One spot in consecrated earth 1 

But, sweetest bard — no matter where 
The mortal wreck of dust be thrown — 

A monument thou'lt ever share 
In hearts of feeling, like thine own. 

Yes, genius will record thy name — 
And poets yet unborn will sing 

Thy lasting praise, and still proclaim 
Thee master of the dulcet string. 

The haughty Dean shall be forgot, 

Nor known beyond his life's short span — 

* Perhaps it may be well here to observe, that the present Dean of 
Westminster would not allow the remains of the immortal Byron a 
small spot among the tombs of his literary countrymen — judging that 
the writings and conduct of the noble Bard had altogether rendered 
him unworthy of such an honour ! — proh pudor ! Yet, were others to 
sit in judgment, like the pious Dean ! on the liteiary foibles and im- 
moral conduct of many who have been admitted to the sacred precincts 
of Westminster, it is almost certain, the uncompromising Byron would 
stand forth from the impartial ordeal, the most pure and spotless, 

MS 



138 

His mem'ry with himself shall rot, 

Unmourned, unwept by muse or man. 
Ob, Byron ! thou sbalt point the w r ay, 

Where sordid dullness can't obtrude, 
And shine, in heaven's clear galaxy, 

A star of brightest magnitude. 
The rising youth will catch the beam 

That falls from splendour such as thine — 
His heart will drink the living stream, 

And feel each ray as if divine. 
And while he views thine orb so bright, 

To yon grey towers his thoughts he'll tum- 
And ask, who dared oppose thy right 

To sleep w T ithin her guarded urn ? 
Nor can he doubt, there many a heart — 

Though basely born — ignobly bred — 
Has found a tomb, where dwell apart 

Memorials of the mighty dead. 
Are trifling fops, whose highest powers 

Were spent in fashion's giddy round, 



139 

Deemed worthier of those reverend towers. 

For rest upon that sacred ground ? 
Or, is it that thy ivories proclaim 

Thy corse unfit to grace that hall ? — 
Oh, stranger ! read each burnished name, 

And say, was Byron's worse than all ? 
No — there are bards and lordlings too, 

Whose sculptured columns proudly rise, 
Whose souls were black in heaven's view, 

Whose works have spread despair and sighs. 
Unblushing, who religion scorned, 

Fair virtue mocked in wanton jest — 
Yet, by a worthier crowd adorned, 

They press upon thy sacred breast. 
The muse, too modest for the strain, 

Deigns not to touch the trembling chord, 
That here could waken thoughts of pain, 

At mention e'en of many a lord. 
But Greece, when o'er the Turkish yoke, 

Refulgent shall in glory rise. 



140 

Will Byron's deathless shade invoke, 

And point tow'rds Britain's favourite skies, 
'Midst bards of old she'll mix thy name — 

Her champion in affliction's hour — 
Then shalt thou shine with brighter fame, 

And scorn pale envy's narrow power. 
Byron, farewell ! thy name shall live, 

Untouched by time, or fell decay — 
And future bards, in songs, will give 

Thy memory to posterity. 



TO MISS 



I loved you, 'tis true, for a minute, 
When chance flung you into my way- 

But sure, all the pleasures had in it 
Were not worth one half the delav. 



141 
LINES, 

WRITTEN OK VISITING THE FALLS OF THE CHAUDLERB,* 1827. 

Stream of the dark, unbounded wild, 

What varied changes here to roam, 
Where nature's free, untutored child, 

Light paddles o'er thy water's foam* 

And in yon liquid sheet above, 

Suspended near the gloomy verge, 
Each image of the leafy grove, 

Seems trembling from the swelling surge ! 

Oh ! there are times, when fancy feels 
Each splendid joy this world pourtrays— 

And with her magic impulse steals 
The heart to thoughts of other days, 



* On consideration, it has been thought proper to substitute these 
stanzas, and the two following little poems, in place of the address to 
Polyphemus, which, perhaps, was too satirical for a publication of 
this nature, 



142 

And there are visions of the past, 
Reflected from our boyhood's prime, 

When memory's eye is backward cast, 
Along the curling brook of time. 

Yet, in the path which fate has given, 
More splendid scenes ne'er shone to man, 

Than now, yon tinted bow of heaven 
Embraces in its fairy span. 

Here, where the happy Indian strays, 
Or loiters on the frowning steep, 

To watch the beaver, where it plays 
Its frolicks in the distant deep. 

How blissful thus one hour to spend, 
Nature's grand outlines to behold — 

And to some kind — some valued friend, 
The feelings of the heart unfold. 



148 

Yes, there are few but own the power 
Which mutual conversation brings, 

In such a place — in such an hour— 
To cheer the soul's dark sorrowings* 

For transient are the beams that play 
Across the lonely path we tread— 

And dim the momentary ray, 

That even Hope itself can shed — 

Can shed, to gild the chequered stream, 

On which the shade of life is cast- 
When in its pale, its fleeting gleam, 
We read the future by the past ! 

But from such gloomy thoughts as these, 
My heart would now most gladly turn, 

Where Nature's mildest prospects please, 
And Discontent might cease to mourn. 



144 

The frowning cliff, that far extends 
Its spray-washed bosom o'er the deep, 

On which the venturous youth oft bends, 
Unmindful of the rugged steep — 

A sweet, romantic joy imparts, 

While from the coiling surge he draws 

The speckled trout, that dives or darts, 
Then makes its last exhausted pause. 

Man loves the vivid changes wrought, 
Along the course he's doomed to steer- 

Nor ever yields the pleasing thought, 
That future joys his heart will cheer— 

And give the coming day a hue, 
As pure and lovely as the even, 

Now forming its unsullied blue 

Arotmd the closing arch of heaven. 



145 

The bliss we share k not so sweet 
As that which gives the futre hour, 

A glowing charm we seldom meet? 
Save in Imagination's bower,. 

Then let me now enjoy the good, 
Possessed in this one sunny minute, 

And I shall think the cheerful wood 

Has home, and heaven, and rapture in it. 



VERSES, 



WB.TTTEN" ON" VISITING THE SAND-BANKS ON' THE SHORES OF LAKE 
ONTARIO, NEAR HALLOVv'ELL. 1828. 



66 So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
The scenery e f a fairy dream." 



Here Nature, in some playful hour, 
Has fondly piled those hills of sand, 



146 

Which seem the frolick of her power, 
Or effort of some magic hand. 

Far o'er the wide extended shore, 
The hills in conic structure rise, 

And seem as never trod before, 
Save by the playmates of the skies. 

And while the wave's reflected shade 
Is flung along each rising mound, 

I watch the curling figures made, 

Which half proclaim, 'tis fairy ground. 

Here Oberon, and Mab his queen, 
Have colonised their infant train, 

From Scotland's hills, and Erin's green, 
Where many a happy day they've lain. 

But joy be theirs — I will not bring 
One recollection to their view, 



14? 

Or of their harp touch one soft string. 
Or thoughts of other days renew. 

Enough for me to gaze upon 

The wildjruif* nodding on each hill, 
Where thou, most generous Oberon, 

May'st sport and skip at pleasure's will. 

Then fare thee well — still light and free 
As summer-winds that fan the lake. 

On, onward to eternity, 

May grief nor care thee overtake. 

My journey's far — I seek a bower. 

Secluded from oppression's rod, 
Where in devotion's happiest hour 

No man can tax the praise of God. 



* This is a sort of wild cherry, which grows on a very small shrubj 

tli.it seems planted by the hand of Nature, as a kind of ornament to 
enhance the curiosity of these great mountains of sand. They are ?erv 



148 



PARAPHRASE OF THE 29th PSALM. 

Give to the Lord ! O ye sons of the mighty ! 

All glory and strength which unto him belong — 
Let heart-glowing cheerfulness warmly incite ye 

To wake with enchantment your heavenly song. 

The voice of the Lord echoes loud o'er the waters, 
And oft times in thunder it bursts through the air- 

The voice of Jehovah delights Sion's daughters. 
And sweetly his praises they love to declare. 



numerous, and by no means unpleasant to the taste. They are gener- 
ally in season about the middle of August — at which time, the people, 
for many miles round the country, assemble in parties of pleasure, for 
the purpose of gathering fruit, and visiting the romantic scenery. — 
These great piles of sand run nearly parallel between the beautiful 
waters of Ontario and the West Lake : they are certainly a wild 
curiosity, and not unworthy the observation of a traveller. The kind 
attention of Mr. Jones rendeied my journey through that part of the 
country very agreeable, and added much to the pleasure of such a 
romantic visit. 



149 
The voice of the Lord splits the cedars asunder. 

Which raise their proud heads on fair Lebanon's hill- 
He makes them to skip like a calf with his thunder, 

And the rage of the wild flame is hushed at his wilL 

His presence the desert of Kadesh makes tremble. 
The hinds of the wilderness bring forth their young ; 

The oak's sturdy strength is to him as the bramble, 
While breezes play lightly its foliage among. 

The Lord on the floods sitteth monarch forever^ 
His power or glory can never decrease — 

His strength from his people no mortal can sever, 
He'll crown them forever with blessings of peace. 



TO SOPHIA, 

There is a melancholy shadow cast 
O'er all my joys, when I return here, 

To muse on pleasures, which have quickly passed, 
When thou, sweet girl, wert dearest of the dear. 



150 

And still the mind is fated to pursue 
The mocking phantoms of delusive bliss, 

Which rise again, to cheat the wond'ring view, 
And make me feel the pangs of even this. 

And, while among these infant pines I stray, 

Which shade the path where oft we've strayed before- 
Each thought reverting, marks that well-known day, 
I breathed my song of rapture o'er and o'er. 

But now, the murmuring breeze that sighs along, 
In gloomy sadness, through the waving grove, 

Comes o'er the heart, like sorrow's dismal song, 
With every feeling that the soul can move. 

And in each breath that fans the maple leaves, 
Now burnished by the sun's declining rays, 

I think I hear, in whispers, through the trees, 
Such notes as soothed my heart in happier days. 



151 

Oh, yes ! Sophia, I was happy still, 

When through Point Levi's groves with thee I strayed, 
Or paused upon the summit of the hill, 

To watch the humming-birds that round us played, 

These, these were minutes of too sweet a cast, 
Which in life's pathway we shall meet no more — 

Ah, no ! they were too brilliant far to last, 
And leave a pang, unfelt — unknown before, 

Yet, if reflection wakes a single thought, 

When on these lines perchance you yet may gaze — 

The heart must tremble, when each scene is brought, 
By magic fancy, painting other days. 

And when, before the retrospective view, 

Each happy incident springs up again, 
That touched the heart, or round it softly drew 

The sweetest joys that pleasure could contain. 



152 

Then, every feeling of the wounded soul, 

Redoubled by the pang of sad regret, 
Must range beyond the bound'ry of control, 

Nor will indulge one moment to forget — 

Forget the hours, that on light pinions flew, 
When on the velvet borders of the hill, 

Above the little church,* that stood in view, 
We sat, and felt soft joys our bosom fill. 

But, all have vanished! like the tide of years, 

Which passed beyond the line that marks the flood, 

Where not a single trace, through time appears, 
To show the lovely spot where Eden stood ! 



* The scenery above the Roman Catholic Church of Point Levi, 
is certainly very delightful — formed by a continued group of little hills, 
handsomely covered with oak, elm, maple, and trees of various descrip- 
tions, rising one above the other, in all the irregularity of romantic 
beauty. — From the summit of these hills, there is a most interesting 
view of the northwest brows of Quebec, (called by the Indians Sta- 
dacone,) rising magnificently up from the winding banks of the St. 
Charles, and to the right the much admired Island of Orleans — the 
Falls of Montmorency — and the broad surface of the St. Lawrence, 
beautifully burnished by the parting sunbeams of a July evening. 



153 

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE. 

While now the sun's declining ray 
Is faintly o'er Slievegallin thrown, 

Leaving the last pale streaks of day. 
Light gleaming in the west alone, 

Beside my Brother's Grave I stand, 
Surrounded by an ivied wall, 

O'er which, time's fell-destroying hand, 
No more impressively can fall ! 

For Ruin long has marked the spot 

Where Dezertlin once proudly rose- 
But now neglected, and forgot, 

'Midst Erin's wrongs, and Erin's woes. 

Then calmly sleep, my brother, here, 
Where o'er thy head the brier bends, 



154 

Now sprinkled by a falling tear, 

Which sorrow from the bosom sends. 

And may the sycamore long fling 
Its sacred shade, in leafy pride, 

Along thy grave, till death shall bring 
My heart to moulder by thy side. 

And here, where thousands sleep around, 

For ages in their dreary bed, 
We'll rest, beneath this little mound, 

'Till God's last mandate wake the dead ! 



TO 



Like Chloe, when she left her teens, 

You wish to turn saint, 
And every youth asks what this means, 

— You've laid aside your paint ! 



155 
THE CANADIAN GIRL, 

I saw her by the dimpling lake,* 

Just when the sun's last ray was setting, 

And paused to hear her softly wake 
The lover's tale of sad regretting — 

Till every note that passed along, 

Inspired me with her magic song. 

The loveliest of the lovely far, 

She seemed in that retreat so lonely, 

Bright hallowed by the vesper star, 

Which o'er her then was twinkling only, 

Giving a charm to that loved spot, 

Which never yet has been forgot. 

* Lake Calyiere, — Of the many beautiful lakes that surround 
the neighbourhood of Quebec, there is none more interesting than Cal- 
viere. The scenery is delightful, and such as to attract the admiration 
of the lover and the poet. An evening's sail in a canoe, across its 
peaceful and shaded bosom, which reflects back the shifting figures of 
the forest, while the parting sunbeams are but faintly thrown among 
the waving branches, has often been to me the source of great and un» 
interrupted pleasure. 



156 

And as the wood she wandered through, 

Her milk pail in her hand she carried, 
Nor made one minute's pause to view 

A youth, who fondly there had tarried, 
The throbbings of his heart to tell, 
And love's too sure enchanting spell- 
On ! never yet has pleasure wove 

Around the heart such soft attraction, 
As binds me to this tinted grove, 

Adorned in nature's gay perfection — 
Forming a blushing arbour sweet, 
Where two young hearts might gladly meet. 

There is a pure — a sacred bliss, 

That o'er the soul comes gently stealing, 
When musing in a spot like this, 

Touching the very soul of feeling : — 
And oh ! that I its joys could share 
With my beloved Canadian fain 



157 

SPENCER-WOOD. 

Through thy green groves, and deep receding bowers, 
Loved Spencer-Wood ! how often have I strayed, 

Or mused away, the calm, unbroken hours, 
Beneath some broad oak's cool, refreshing shade. 

There, not a sound disturbed the tranquil scene, 
Save welcome hummings of the roving bee, 

That quickly flitted o'er the tufted green. 

Or where the squirrel played from tree to tree. 

And I have paused beside that dimpling stream, 
Which slow r ly winds thy beauteous groves among, 

Till from its breast retired the sun's last beam, 
And every bird had ceased its vesper song. 

The blushing arbours of those classic days, 

Through which the breathings of the slender reed, 



158 

First softly echoed with Arcadia's praise, 

Might well be pictured in this sheltered mead* 

And blest were those who found a happy home 
In thy loved shades, without one throb of care — 

No murmurs heard, save from the distant foam, 
That rolled in columns o'er the great Chaudiere.* 

And I have watched the moon in grandeur rise. 
Above the tinted maple's leaffy breast, 

And take her brilliant path-way through the skies? 
Till half the world seemed lulled in peaceful rest. 



* The falls of the Chandiere are about nine miles from Quebec, 
on the south shore of the St. Lawrence, and for beauty, and romantic 
scenery, perhaps not surpassed in all America. They are not so magni- 
ficent as "Niagara, but certainly far more pictureso^ie. The Cohos, on 
the Mohawk river — the Catskili — the Genesees, which fiow into 
Lake Ontario, and many other falls that I visited, through the 
United States, are no more than the overflowings of a glass of soda- 
water, when put in comparison with the enchanting grandeur of the 
Chaudiere. 



159 

Oh ! these were hours, whose soft enchanting spell 
Came o'er the heart, in thy grove's deep recess — 

Where e'en poor Shenstone might have "loved to dwell? 
Enjoying the pure calm of happiness ! 

But soon, how soon, a different scene I trace, 

Where I have wandered, or oft musing stood : — •■ 

And those whose cheering looks enhanced the place, 
No more shall smile on thee, lone Spencer-Wood !* 



* This is one of the most beautiful spots in Lower Canada, and the 
property of the late Hon. Michael Henry Perceval, who resid" 
ed there with his accomplished family ; whose polished, and highly 
educated minds, rendered my visits to Spencer-Wood, doubly inter- 
esting, — It is handsomely situated on the lofty banks of the St. Law- 
rence, a little more than two miles from Quebec. The grounds, and 
gravel walks are tastefully laid out, interspersed with a great variety 
of trees, planted by the hand of nature. The scenery is altogether 
magnificent, and particularly towards the east, where the great pre- 
cipices overhang Wolfe's Coye. This latter place has derived its 
name from that hero, who, with his British trcops, nobly ascended its 
frowning cliffs, on the night of the 11th of September, 1759, and 
took possession of the plains of Abraham. 



o2 



160 



TO 



On this rock's narrow brink, which o'erlooks thy loved cot, 

I sit at the close of the day, 
And watch the round moon just emerge o'er that spot 

Where the forest looks smiling and gay. 

And surely 'tis sweet, in this moment of peace, 
From the world here shut out a while, 

The scenes of my boyhood once more to retrace, 
Though seldom e'er blest with a smile. 

And yet, I could wish to renew them again, 

Had I one faithful friend by my side, 
That would freely partake of my pleasure or pain, 

And console me, whatever betide. 

And oh ! such a friend I could fancy in thee, 
With a soul of the happiest die, 



161 

Unruffled and pure, as that mirror I see 
Reflecting a summer-eve sky* 

But here, on my flute, I shall venture to raise 

Those melodies, dearest, of thine, 
Whose every note speaks the transport of days 

Which never again can be mine. 

And oh ! may its breathings, now softly drawn out, 
Be as softly conveyed to thine ear, 

By the sweet fanning zephyrs, while sporting about, 
To tell thee Slievegattin is here, 



NAPOLEON IN EXILE, 

In the noon of thy fame, and the proud blaze of glory. 
Dark Fate sent her mandate, and forced thee awa^- 

As if dreading thy name, in the page of her story, 
Thou dread wonder of worlds — of kings the dismay, 
oS 



162 

On a wild barren rock in the bosom of ocean, 

Where nought but the sea-fowl can willingly rest, 

Thou art chained from the struggles of war's fell commo- 
tion, 
And left to such pangs as may harass thy breast. 

Yet — better, by far, thou hadst sunk in the battle, 
And closed thy career in the midst of the brave, 

Among clashing of arms, and war's deadly rattle, 
Than walk down in silence to Helena's grave. 

Thou maker of kings, and dethroner of tyrants — 
Thou greatest of mortals this earth has yet known — ■ 

Not even the eye of the proudest aspirants 

Dares look at the crowns made so easily thine own ! 

Yet, France must remember — let Bourbons deny it — 
If gratitude touch but one pulse of her heart — 

Thou hast been her friend through both tumult and quiet, 
Though malice and envy their slander impart. 



163 

But now, at the foot of a low bending willow, 

Shut out from the sound of the war-trumpet's breath, 

In the calm of repose — with a rock for thy pillow — 
Thou sleepest in silence — the long sleep of death. 

Then, where are the trophies that victory brought thee — 
And where are the diadems dragged from each throne. 

When nations and kings with devotion have sought thee — 
Greatest monarch, and guide of the world alone? 

'Tis all but a phantom — the dream of a minute — 
That flits from the circle where life makes a stand— 

And serves but to show, all the pleasures had in it 
Are not worth one half of the cares they command ! 



164 
TO MARY. 

WRITTEN FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE, NEAR 
CORNWALL, 1823. 

To thee, to thee, though far away, 

My every inward thought I turn, 
And gladly hope, some future day, 

This wearied heart may cease to mourn. 

May cease to mourn, when thou art nigh 
To soothe and lull its woes to rest, 

To calm the swell, the bursting sigh, 
That labours in this tortured breast. 

For, Mary ! when the shades of care, 

In darkness floated o'er my mind, 
The pensive hour thou couldst repair, 

And for each pang a solace find. 



165 

But here, through dreary wilds, unknown, 
The muse her dirge of sadness sings, 

Unheard, unheeded, and alone, 

Wherever chance her pathway brings. 

America ! thy boasted charms, 

Are merely fleeting shades of bliss — 

My every onward step alarms — 
Some lurking reptile sleeps in this. 

Oh I give me back my own green hills, 
And humble cot on Branno's side, 

Whence flow the deep Pierian rills, 
That haste to meet Bann's glassy tide ; 

Where Ossian sung, in happier days, 
The mighty deeds of each loved Chief- 

And still, responsive to his lays, 
His gentle harp woke joy or grief. 



166 

There may the setting star of life, 
Which long has wandered for repose, 

Secluded from this world's strife, 
With thee, my Mary, meet its close ! 



APOSTROPHE, 

TO THE HARP OF DENNIS HAMPSON, THE MINSTREL OF MAGILLIGAN, 
IN THE COUNTY OF DERRY. 

In the gloom of repose, from the hand that has often, 
Through transport the purest, touch'd gently thy strings, 

Thou art destined, ah never ! again once to soften 
The heart with such rapture as melody brings. 

Ah, no ! dearest harp ! bleakest ruin hangs o'er thee, 
Thy chords are all torn — and the minstrel now dead, 

Who first through his own native isle proudly bore thee, 
And loved from thy bosom soft music to shed. 



167 

Yet the children of Erin shall guard safe the willow, 
That bends in luxuriance o'er his lone grave, 

And nods in the night-winds — half fanned by the billow, 
Which loves the Magilligan shores still to lave. 

In the sunshine of days — now but living in story, 
Around his thatched cot would the villagers throng, 

When the heart felt no motion, save proud bursts of glory, 
And thrills of delight still awoke by his song. 

Oh, Hampson !* each charm sweetest music has in it, 
In soul-breathing numbers came forth at thy touch, 

And yielded fresh rapture, each heavenly minute, 
That the heart, until then, never knew half as much* 



* This 'son of song,' and the last of the wandering minstrels of 
Ireland, died in his own little cottage, on the shores of Magilligan, in 
1S0S, at the advanced age of 115 years. Lady Morgan has lately 
caused a mea'ble slab, with a suitable inscription, to be placed over 
his grave. — My talented friend, of the Irish Shield, George Pepper, 
has given, in that valuable publication, a very interesting description 
of Magilligan, worthy of his classical and highly accomplished pen. 



168 

But peace to thy shade ! — and while o'er thy wrecked 
lyre- 
True emblem of Erin — now hushed in the hall — 

In sorrow I gaze — deep reflections inspire, 
And saddest emotions my bosom enthral. 

Yet, dare I but venture, loved harp, to restring thee, 
With hand, though but humble — is faithful and true — 

The zephyrs, while playing at evening, might bring thee 
Such music as Memnon's, when sunbeams glide through. 

But now, since the night shades are closing around thee, 
My last parting wish o'er thee bending I'll pour : — 

Undisturbed may'st thou rest — as when first I found 
thee — 
Till Freedom, to Erin, her anthem restore.* 



* Since the above stanzas were written, the noble efforts of our 
generous Sovereign, assisted by the immortal Wellington, and 
other distinguished patriots, have happily procured for Ireland her long 
sought freedom. 



169 



TO MISS EVELEEN" 



■WRITTEN ON THE TABLE ROCK, AT THE FALLS OF NIAGARA, 182-3. 

Oh ! with thee, my dear girl, 'tis now doubly sweet, 
One moment to gaze on those columns of foam, 

O'er the brim of that precipice rushing to meet, 
In Ontario's bosom a happier home. 

And, oh ! there's a grandeur sublime in the surge, 
Which awakens a feeling unkindled before — - 

A language conveyed, in the gloom of that dirge, 

Sent forth from each torrent that bursts on the shoref 

But now, from the struggles of waters below 3 
Let us turn our eyes to a happier scene. 

And mark the deep tints of yon miniature bow, 
Commingled with heaven's pure essence of green, 



170 

This, this is an sera of grandeur sublime, 

Marked out in life's pathway as onward we go, 

To the goal of our hopes, to that heavenly clime, 
Where the waters of Eden in quietness flow. 



TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY R. SYMES. 

JAMQUE VALE. 

Deep o'er the pensive mind, in sorrowing gloom, 
Sad melancholy holds her potent sway, 

And marks, oh much loved youth ! thy early doom ? 
From friends as dear as life thus snatched away. 

Around the classic board* shall we no more 
Pursue the page that marks the foot of time, 

Or drink from Helicon that living lore, 

Which lifts the soul, and gives it thoughts sublime. 



* This alludes to a Literary Society, established in Quebec in 
the winter of 1825, of which Mr. Symes was a member. 



171 

Ah, no i the scene is closed — each hope is fled— 
And life fast fleeting ebbs from every vein — 

Thou, Henry — thou art numbered with the dead. 
And I shall shortly follow in the train. 

The fairy dreams that long have mocked the view, 
No more shall rise to cheat th' aspiring soul — - 

Hence to earth's visions let me breathe adieu, 
And learn ambition's passion to control. 

Poor Kirk-White, Dermody, and woe-struck Orr, 
Proclaim, in all the tide of highest grief. 

The mind too sensitive, ill made to bear 

The storms of fate — in heaven but finds relief. 

Then, friend, farewell ! and from my feeble lyre 
Accept the parting tribute that it gives— 

Since thou art gone to join the heavenly choir. 
Where that best part, the soul, immortal lives. 



p2 



172 



CATHLEEN. 



Over her tearful eyes hung loose her disordered locks — 
She wept for her own green land.— Gssiax. 



Upon a lonely bank, against whose base 
Saint Lawrence wildly heaves, she sat and wept 
Her sad misfortune — that dark misfortune, 
Which thus had forced her from her native cot, 
And doomed her in a distant land to seek 
A scanty pittance from a hand unknown. 

A sun more fierce than ever yet has flung 

Its scorching beams upon her own green hills, 

Had marked her care-worn cheek with brownest hue, 

And tinged her brow w T ith deep Canadian die — 

To me she told the story of her woes, 

And hopes of other times, which never more 

Can wake one spark of joy in her dark souh 



17 3 

Yet, Cathleen", though a wreck, seemed lovely still. 
And kindled feelings of a finer stamp 
Than pity or compassion e'er hath known. 

Her plaintive tale was such, as Erin's child. 
No matter where he strays to find a home, 
Might well divine. — But as my pen, too oft, 
Has freely strayed from that allegiance, 
Which some may say it owes to England's king, 
I'll here restrain its open willingness, 
And check its blamed impetuosity ! 

Yet, quite too soon, the chequered path of life 
Thy young and gentle heart must enter on, 
Without a guide — save the All-ruling Power, 
Which, at the call of stainless purity, 
Is ever ready— and confers a boon, 
On worth and innocence so chaste as thine. 
Deep, deep, unseen like Bakou's ardent fire, 
Lie all the sympathies that merit praise 



174 

In man's proud breast, till sadly once he sees 

Too true an image of his country's fate — 

The child of impulse weep, and drag the chain — 

Then all the soft emotions of his heart — 

As spirits flash resentment on the foe — 

Quick swell to rage — he strikes, and takes revenge. 

Oh, Cathleen ! I can truly share thy grief, 
And fain would hope, that yet a brighter day 
May shine with all its wonted cheerfulness, 
And give to Erin's Isle what Heaven designed ; — 
Come then with me, the portion of my roof, 
Which, though but scanty, thou shalt freely share — 
And when the shell of joy has once proclaimed 
Loved Erin free, I'll cross the ocean wave, 
And to thy mountain-cot thyself restore* 



175 

SACRED MELODY. 

Why should my heart forgetful be 
Of all thy gifts so freely given ? 

Why are my thoughts estranged from thee ? 
Thou God of grace, thou King of heaven ? 

Oh ! let me from my folly turn, 

Nor longer walk the path of death — ■ 

Teach me my errors now to mourn, 
And praise thee with nry latest breath. 

Too long, in wild poetic dreams, 

My heart has drunk delusive pleasure, 

And on the falsely moving streams 
Of Fancy sought a dying treasure. 

But, ah ! how soon the vision flies. 



And mocks the bliss we sought for here— 



176 

Earth's brightest joy in darkness dies, 
Nor leaves one hope the soul to cheer. 

Religion ! gives the soul relief, 

And points the way to purest bliss — 

Religion ! dries each tear of grief, 
And makes us e'en a heaven of this. 

Then, pardon all my sinful deeds, 

And wash each blotting stain from me— 

Oh ! heal this wounded heart that bleeds, 
And bring it home to heaven and thee. 



THE FAIRY-BOAT, 

The winds are hushed, the waves are still- 
All nature seems to catch the tone, 

And calmly list the Clar'net's thrill, 
And notes of days that now are gone. 



177 

Yes — I have heard, in happier hours, 
That sweet, that fairy breath of song, 

While yet my path was strewed with flowers, 
My own, my native hills among. 

And now, as o'er the water's brim 
That little bark of pleasure steers, 

Through time's extended vista, dim, 
It wakes the joys of other years — 

Joys, happy joys, that long have slept, 
Now memory's page unfolds again, 

And all the scenes o'er which I've wept, 
Seem half revived in music's strain. 

And I am sure, that heart and hand, 
So happily each soft note swelling, 

Are not unknown to Erin's land, 
And seem as if her sorrows telling S 



1?8 

For peace no longer crowns her hills — 
No shell of gladness cheers her hall — 

No evening dance — by purling rills 
Her daughters led the festive ball. 

Oh ! there's a pleasing sadness thrown — 

A melancholy bliss, that steals 
Along the heart, and makes it own 

The power that melody reveals — 

When thus, on Zephyr's airy wing, 

Notes loved in boyhood reach the ear — 

The notes my Mary joyed to sing, 

By Loughneagh's banks when I was near, 

But I have left my own dear lakes, 
My cottage maid and humble home, 

To wander here, through woods and brakes, 
Where free as air the Indians roam. 



179 

Yet, Erin ! though we sadly part. 
My soul's devotion bends to thee. 

With all the fervour of a heart 

That pants to know that thou art free. 

And when that foul, unholy chain 
The patriot-hand shall proudly break, 

I'll string my native harp again, 
And all its former songs awake. 



A GREAT POETICAL PLAGIARIST. 

In council, where the muses met, 
To their kind God appealing- 
It was resolved — without regret — 
That you be hanged for stealing, 



180 



A FUGITIVE GARLAND, 

TO EE fcTREWN ON THE STRANGE GRAVE OF GEORGE F. COOJLE, 
THE " IRISH ROSCIUS." 



Non ego te rneis Chartis inornaium silebo, 

Totve tuos patiar honor es impune, carpers lividas obliviones, 

Horace. 



Here have I come, with reverential tread, 

O'er many a grave that throngs this sacred spot, 

To seek thy Tomb, among the unknown dead, 

Who sleep around — unmourned — and long forgot. 

And there's a feeling — such as hearts like mine 

Alone may feel — comes trembling through my frame, 

While now I trace the Demon-defaced line 

That bears, oh Cooke ! thy much insulted name ! 

But though some impious hand has dared to touch 
The marble block thy friend erected here — 



181 

There is a pyramid to thee — and such 
As pale-faced envy never can come near, 

That pyramid is Fame's — and her great hand 
Displays the banner Genius o'er thee hung, 

When, in obedience to her high command, 
Nations were captives to thy magic tongue ! 

Yet, I've a hope, that ere a distant day, 

Some spirit, prompted by indulgent heaven, 

Will safely to that Isle thy bones convey, 
Where first the mountain-breeze of life vvas given. 

And this exotic plant* — this lonely one — 
Sole veidure, budding on this naked mound, 



* The only verdure I could find on the hallowed grave of Cooke 
was a solitary Shamrock, which seemed to have taken shelter close 
by the corner of the monument, as the faithful representative of the 
tragedian's country. Unwilling, therefore, that it should be exposed 
to such wreck and abuse as some foul hands have already inflicted on 
the monument, T have deprived St, Paul, of New York, of this re* 



Q 



182 

I will translate — that, e'en when I am gone, 
It may, to deck thy future grave, be found — 

Where it will flourish long in honoured rest — 
No foot to bruise or soil its tender frame — 

Nor folded reptile slumber on its breast, 

But freshly bloom with Cooke's undying name! 



TO y 



Nay ! ask not why that dark'ning gloom 
Sits heavy on my youthful brow — 

Or why thus fled the healthful bloom, 
And left my cheek so sallow T now — 



spected emblem of St. Patrick, by conveying it to my own temporary 
abode, and shall finally plant it on the green summit of the flowery 
mantled Slievegallin, in the county of Derry — where it may once 
more imbibe the dew of a friendlier sky, and spread forth its little 
blossoms to the fairy breezes of its native mountains. 



183 

Or why my harp I take no more. 

To wake again its slumb'ring string. 
Or swell the note, so loved before, 

Whose simplest tone could solace bring- 
There is a cause I dare not tell, 

Which, like a tempest rude, doth shake 
My bosom's chord — (no fancied spell) — 

Like reeds upon some curling lake* 

There was a time when every joy, 

Like sunbeams playing o'er the wave. 

Danced in my path — without alloy — 
And to each sweet new relish gave. 

Then, ask no more — no lover's thought 
Disturbs one fibre of my breast — 

Ah, no ! 'tis something dearer bought, 
Which ne'er, till life's last pulse, can rest 



Q2 



184 

There is but one, and only one, 

Can read the torturing pang that's cast 

To wreck this heart — yet were gone, 

How fondly should I breathe my last ! 



TO MISS M G . 

That languid look and mournful air 

Bespeak a heart depressed by sorrow — 

And throbs ebb forth, as if despair 
Had left for thee no shining morrow. 

Then, tell me — has false hope deceived, 
And proved a tyrant so unfeeling ? 

Or, has some youth — with vows believed — 

Betrayed that heart, whence sighs are stealing ? 



185 

If so — may all the direful pangs 
A wounded conscience can awaken, 

His bosom tear, with venom'd fangs, 
Till by the world and life forsaken. 

That pallid cheek appears to me. 
In all its dress of deepest anguish, 

The very type of misery, 

Where youth and hope together languish. 

But, ah ! the morning calm, I fear, 
Of love is past — nor joy's emotion 

Remains to smooth thy pathway here, 
Or light the flame of thy devotion. 

How desolate that heart must be, 

Still doomed — no gleam of bliss remaining 

T'endure the curse of memory, 
Past miseries alone retaining ! 



Q$ 



186 

Then, let me weep and sigh with thee, 

And look such words as can't be spoken- 
Come, fly dear girl — oh ! fly to me — 
I'll sooth that heart too sadly broken. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 



** She was not beautiful, if bloom 

And smiles form beauty — for, like death, 

Her brow was ghastly." 



Those veering thoughts which toss thy labouring mind, 
Lost in its own dark agony, are sad, 
And form a pit'ous wreck from what they feed on, 
In youth's short morning. 

Thine the fate of hearts, tender, kind, possessing 
All the warmth that pure, gentlest love inspires, 
Till by some stroke ungenerously severe, 

They fall and languish, 



18? 

Lately I've seen thy full buoyancy of soul, 
Playful and free, as mountain-sylph or fawn. 
Ere pain, or anxious care thy thoughts estranged. 
Or sorrow found thee. 

But, alas ! the shifting scene has left a trace — 
A trace too eloquent of lasting woes, 
In which we read misfortune's dark impression, 
Fixed, indelible. 

That cheek, on which youth's loveliest bloom has played, 
And brow, whose radiance might have fully vied 
Still with the most boasted of the eastern fair, 
Have lost their sweetness. 

All the winning cheerfulness of thy young heart, 
And blushing tints which beauty round thee flung — - 
Like flow'rs fading away in their sweet odours — 
Fast yield to decay 



188 

And, like the lone hermit, in his dungeon'd cell* — 
Where one bright ray of heav'n's light ne'er enters, 
Wrapp'd in the solitude of his working thoughts — 
Still Memory shines, 

And gives to other days their happiest hue — 
Till, at reflection's call, his heart looks back, 
And shows him what he was, is, and soon must be — 
The very jest of fate. 

Thus, in the gloom of thine own imaginings, 
Thou poncVrest o'er bright days, and happy hours, 
Gone by, no more to cheer life's tedious round, 
Or smooth thy pathway. 

But — mildest, fairest — for yet thou still art fair — 
Had beauty, and all virtue can bestow, 
Been proof 'gainst ev'ry ill, thou hadst stood unhurt, 
Beneath life's pressure ! 
* Ovid very properly terms « darkness,' Maxima nutrix car arum* 



189 
EPITAPH, 

ON THE REV. - — - — — ~. 

Arge Jaces ! 

Here — sleeps, say what you please — 

He's rescued now from bother — 

He prayed, and sipped his glass, at ease, 
But ne'er shall sip another — 

Unless some friend, with friendship fraught, 

Who, ere he saw him off in 
His last caleche, had kindly thought 

To slip one in his cofSn. 

In Grotius oft he took delight, 

And Lincoln studied daily — 
But Holland surely every night, 

Because more clear than Pale-ly '! 



190 



TO MISS SUSAN B- 



There was a time I loved to gaze 
Upon thine eyes of deepest blue. 

And fancied all their beaming rays, 

Were but thy pure soul shining through. 

But fancy often points a way, 

Which calm reflection disapproves, 

And reason brings a choicer lay, 
Than what the poet often loves. 

Yet — while the wildness of my song 
Has freely caught thy list'ning ear, 

'Twas rapture ever to prolong 

Such notes as thou wert pleased to hear. 

And, Susan ! I have thought that heart 
Was but the steady home of love— 



191 

A home that only could impart 
Such bliss as angels taste above* 

Thy truth and candour — dare I say ? — 
'Mong females rarely to be founds 

Were but the beings of a day, 
As void as echo's mimic sound. 

To blame, or even to accuse 

The shifting movements of thy soul, 

Is not adapted to the muse — 

She feels an honest self-control — 

For, oh ! such notes suit not my lyre — 
It loves to yield its gentle string 

In unison with joy's desire, 

Brought forth on Zephyr's airy wing. 

The object of thy wav 'ring care 
Seems purely worthy to be thine ; 



192 

True Cambrian-like — then let him share 
The bliss I seek not to be mine. 

A scarlet coat has many a charm, 

Both Jlshy and female hearts to gain — * 

Attractive powers ! — then dread no harm, 
The son of Mars will guard from pain ! 

Let talent hide her modest head — 

Let worth from scenes like this retire- 
Let genius never dare to tread 

The field where woman stands umpire ! 

Unless in scarlet they be dressed — 
Instead of bays, a waving feather — 

Then doubtless they will be caressed, 
And Su and they shall fly together. 



* It is a well known fact, that not only silly girls are very fond of a 
red coat, but even mackerel are caught by the foulest bait when co= 
vered with scarlet. 



193 
IMPROMPTU, 

TO S C-DM-N, Esq.. 

IN ANSWER TO A FRIENDLY NOTE, ACCOMPANYING A QUANTITY 

OF CHOICE WINE, SENT TO THE AUTHOR DURING 

INDISPOSITION* 

• 

Dear C. 

True, your wine is as good 

As in goblet e'er stood, 
Or enliven'd the soul, or the sense— 

The Falernian juice 

Never was of more use — 
Freeing me from the Paulo Post tense. 

For long time have I been, 

Just lingering between 
Life and death, with some Sibyl as grim— 

But here now, w T ith one sup, 

From the dear liquid cup, 
All my spirits shall flow to the brim. 



194 

The Caecubian draught, 

O'er which Horace oft laughed, 
As sweet as kind Venus' nectar, 

Never gave more relief 

To the spirit, where grief 
Pressed deep as the woes upon Hector. 

E'en good Cato did sip 

The loved balm with his lip, 
From th' Amystis, whene'er he should dine- 

Nor did Phillis do less, 

The Albanian press 
Caused her goblet to flow with pure wine. 

I hope no one will blame 

Now if I do the same — 
For our motives and views disagree : 

'Twas fond pleasure they caught — 

'Tis dear health that I've sought — 
For health's the sweet beverage for me. 



195 

Then, best thanks for your gift, 

Which my spirits shall lift, 
And give a new tinge to my feeling — 

I am grateful to say, 

That I feel now this day 
Ev'ry pang of my heart quickly healing. 



SOPHIA'S REPLY. 

My child — said a mother, with caution severe- 

I hope you will never forget, 
That modesty's traces ought always appear 

In the form where true beauties are met. 

Tis this is the glory and pride of the fair, 

Adding lustre to every grace — 
Surrounded by gallants, then strictly beware 

Of that full gaze of thine in their face ! 



u2 



196 

Let thy long lashes bind thy regards to the earth, 
And evade the rude glance of each youth — 

Thus emotions of rapture thou'lt quickly give birth, 
And the flame thou awaken'st be truth. 

Look downward, Mama ! — said the maid in surprise — 
Hide the beauties that nature has given ?- — 

As well might we think of averting our eyes 
From the blue smiling lustre of heaven. 

In periods gone by, might the maidens consent 
To retract their young charms from the view, 

When religion's or coquetry's arrows were spent — 
But at this day, such tales I — and from you ! — 

The men may look down, as subdued by our charms, 

Till we bid the mild suiters look up — 
And fear or exult, in the power of our arms, 

Impell'd by despair or by hope. 



197 

From man we emerge, as the sunbeams of light 
Cluster round the meridian sun's rim — 

Then why not the purest best arrows of sight, 
Be incessantly levelled at him I 



TO MARY, 

ON HER RETURNING TO HER NATIVE COUNTRY, AFTER AN ABSENCE 
OF FITE YEARS. 



Go, fair one — -go, and may each gale 

Propitious guide thee o'er the wave- 
May gentle breezes swell the sail, 

And Heaven prove kind my love to save. 

Go, fair one — go to that loved Isle, 

Where friendship hails thy glad return — . 

Where joy the purest loves to smile, 
And beauty's torches brightest bum. 



rS 



198 

And when along the green-clad shore, 
At evening's close you oft may stray, 

Ah ! tell me, shall e'en one thought more 
Be turned to him who's far away ? 

Shall memory point to each blest hour 
So sweetly spent, untinged with care, 

When oft we sought the hawthorn bower, 
To sigh love forth and ramble there ? 

Then high raised rapture filled the eye, 

And melting fondness filled the heart- 
Nor dreamed we that an hour was nigh, 
To wrench our mutual souls apart. 

But that cursed hour too quickly came, 
And robbed me of my purest bliss — 

Nor left me aught, except the name 
Of life, to feel the pang of this* 



199 

Then, fare thee well — no more we'll meet 
By whinny brae, or heath-clad hill— 

Xo more thy gentle converse sweet, 

Can cheer this heart with rapture's thrill. 

Yet, all the influence time may lend, 

Can't break love's fondest, earliest twine, 

Nor chill that heart — till life shall end — 
Which still, dear Mary ! still is thine. 



BANGLE AWE— THE ROVING BARD. 

From the cot of my father, as day-light descended, 
And Sol dipped his rim in the far distant wave, 

O'er the hills of Slievegallin my lone steps I bended, 
Where the heath-bell nods gently o'er Hang's* silent 
grave, 

* As there are few of the Irish people to whom the writings and 
character of Rangleawe, (Francis Dowlfog,) are not well known. 



200 

There calmly in sleep rests the Bard, famed in story, 
Who oft from his lip would wild melody pour, 

When of Erin he sung, and her long faded glory, 
While his harp the soft numbers repeated Gillore. 

But that harp now no longer its sweet tones awaken, 
To gladden the heart with each soft melting thrill — 

Ah, no ! every chord slumbers sadly forsaken, 

And the lip that breathed o'er them now hushed on 
the hill. 



it is enough to say, that his poetic and extemporaneous effusions, toge- 
ther with a copiousness of that ready wit which is so truly the charac- 
teristic of Irishmen, rendered him an object of the greatest respect, 
and always procured for him, wherever he went, the " Cead mile 
faille duit," hundred thousand welcomes. — Like most other poets, he 
was particularly fond of celebrating the pretty girls of his day. The 
greatest favourite that he ever had was a Miss Downy, whose love- 
ly form and features are still clear to my recollection. 1 never saw 
her but once, and that when I was but very young. She was then on 
a visit to a friend, in my own little village, Tnllinagee — and curiosity 
led me to see the lady whom our old bard had so highly celebrated. 
With rude boyish gaze, I strictly surveyed the fading form of her who once 
could inspire the lover and the poet. There was an indescribable some- 
thing in her look and manner that I thought surpassed all I had ever seen, 
and made such an impression on my mind, that it still is, and ever shall 
be, unmoved by the operations of time. 



201 

To the past days of sunshine fond memory bore me, 
And pictured the joys that no longer appear — 

She marked out the spot, where the Bard slept before me — 
That spot which the children of Erin revere* 

His tomb shall be decked with the ever-green heather— 
The shamrock and daisy around it be spread— 

And the sweet smiling daughters of Erin shall gather 
The loveliest flowers to garnish his becL 

Then farewell, loved minstrel- — although thy harp slum- 
bers, 

Some true kindred spirit may yet wake its tone, 
And touch with pure finger the soul-breathing numbers 

That liberty kindles in hearts like our own- 

Yes — freedom restored to the green hills of Erin, 
Shall proudly display her own banner again — 

While the Demon of party in torture's despairing, 
And tyranny conquered shall writhe in her chain, 



202 



MONODY, 

TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE CANNING. 

Tis the last of the great that has gone to his rest, 
And the death-note is heard o'er the billows afar — 

The nations where liberty stands now confest 
Weep sadly the loss of this meteor-star. 

And Albion sighs while she points to the spot, 

That bears now inscribed her loved patriot's name — 

Her Canning ! — that statesman who never forgot 
What is due to mankind, and his country's fame. 

Now Liberty's torch shall illumine his urn, 
And Erin her incense around it shall fling, 

Whilst praying for freedom ! — and still to it turn, 
With a faith that incites her pure off'rings to bring. 



203 

Tis an off 'ring of hearts, as fixed, firm and brave, 

As the rock that withstands the rude surge from the 
deep, 

And smiles at the foam, and the wide-spreading wave^ 
That loves the Green Isle in its bosom to steep. 

Yet, her prayers shall be heard — for her King he is just— - 
And the land of Fitzgerald soon flourish again 

'Mong the nations of earth — whilst low in the dust, 
Oppression shall struggle and gnaw her own chain. 

Oh, Canning ! the fountain of reason was thine, 
And the rights of mankind could thee ever inspire ; 

'Midst the world's commotion — at liberty's shrine, 
Thou never forgottest the loved land of thy Sire.* 

From the bed of oppression, and tortures of pain, 
Pale Frenzy, to ease the deep pangs of her mind, 

Sought refuge from thee, nor sought she in vain. 

For thou touched every chord that vibrates on mankind, 

* Ireland, 



204 

But, Star of the West ! now forever farewell — 
Thou art gone to illumine a happier sphere ; 

Yet the light thou hast kindled shall still with us dwell. 
And thy name to posterity ever be dear, 



STANZAS, 

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND- 

High throbs the heart with sorrows keenest swell, 
While now a parting tribute friendship pays 

To one long dearly loved, whose fun'ral knell 
Strikes the sad ear with death's last obsequies, 

And onward there, deep, melancholy, slow, 
In solemn silence move the weeping train — 

Where they consign, in all the gloom of woe, 
Pale earth to earth, and dust to dust again. 

This, this thy fate, just when the op'ning day 
Of manhood beamed upon thy youthful brow? 



205 

And fortune smiled, to cheer and gild thy way, 
But never proved, alas ! so false as now ! 

There, o'er thy grave a mother bending weeps, 
Whose aged heart life's chequered walk has run— 

A sister, too, thy new raised pillow steeps, 
Clings to the wreck 'twere better far to shun e 

Thus, the bright ray Hope kindled to the view — 
As shines the lamp in winter's piercing breath — 

A while around a cheering light it threw, 

Then quiv'ring, sunk in the night-shade of death — 

And as a meteor gliding from the pole, 
Swift passed those joys to ruin and decay, 

That once as brightly played upon the soul, 
And pure as sunbeams on a summer sea. 

Then, fare thee well — One bleeding heart shall mourn* 
To which, nor time nor chance can bring relief— 

s 



206 

Her vestal hand shall guard thy sacred urn, 
And there consume her days in endless grief — 

With pious care she'll tend that hallowed spot, 

Where sleeps the youth for whom her bosom glowed — 

Nor shall that heart one moment be forgot, 

Where friendship, honour, truth and love abode. 

Ah, no — for thee her anthem still shall rise 
To heaven's portals at the close of day — 

For thee, her fervent prayers shall reach the skies, 
When evening gems the deep blue starry way. 

And while she tastes the balm heaven's hope must bring, 
And owns the path her blest Redeemer trod — 

Death seems disarmed of his envenom'd sting, 
And all her wishes centre in her God. 

Oh ! may our hearts the grateful homage feel, 
And turn to Him who kindly bids us live : 



207 
Whose mercy still the deepest wound can heal — 
Who bids us ask, and he will freely give. 



ELEGY, 

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIK JOHN M<MICHAEL. 

The death-note breaks upon the ear, 

And friendship mourns a friend departed, 

Whilst mem'ry sheds the burning tear 
For him, the good and generous hearted. 

Nor can the cloud of deepest woe 
That bursting throb of sorrow cover, 

Which feeds upon the swelling throe, 
And wrecks the heart when hope is over. 

From thee the needy found relief, 
For pity raised thy tender feeling — 
s2 



208 

By thee was cooled the flush of grief, 

And wiped the tear from anguish stealing. 

A heart more pure, more true, more kind, 
In man's fond breast expanded never — 

Ah, no ! for love was there enshrined, 
And even death that love can't sever. 

But, hark ! how soft, how sweet the sound, 
Where angels come, thy spirit greeting, 

Echoing joyous notes around — 

Oh ! the glorious, heavenly meeting ! 

And now how brightly glows the flame 
In breasts seraphic — for thee caring — 

And heaven's page enrolls thy name, 
Where thou celestial bliss art sharing. 



* 



209 
THE HIBERNIAN SOLITARY, 

Fair rose the day star 'mid the smiles of Heaven, 
And nature's flowery garb bedeck'd the lawn — 
Each bending spray with dew-drops thickly gemmed- 
The opening blossoms sent forth rich perfume- 
When thus I strayed, reckless of earth-born cares, 
O'er the proud summit of Slievegallin fair — 
Mountain renowned in song — by me adored — 
Where beauty's richest works profusely swell 
With varied scenes, that boast unequalled grandeur. 
There, 'midst the flow of all my boyish thoughts, 
I pondered o'er the mighty days gone by, 
When Erin's bards awoke their native strain, 
And touched the chord of sainted melody, 
Whilst from the harp, in dulcet numbers flowed 
The soul of music, wafted on the breeze. 

Thus, as I wandered o'er the daisied banks, 
I cast my eye tow'rds that loved Cot below — 

$3 



210 

Home of my childhood — seat of blissful hours : 
But now that home's no more, nor inmates dear, 
Nor blissful hours — for gone's my every joy ! 
How sad the thought ! — how painfully severe 
With memory now to range, and re-survey 
The sunny moments of my school-boy days — 
When oft I lightly brushed the morning dew— 
And, with the friends then dearest to my bosom, 
Culled the sweet primrose from the thorny hedge — 
Or sauntered by the purling brook, to see 
The speckled trout dance in the solar beam — 
Or with the maid I loved, whose glowing cheek 
And sparkling eye, and manners mild, inviting — 
I fondly walked, whilst rapture filled my soul, 
And pulled the lily from the flowery plain — 
An offering for my love — as slow we moved 
Tow'rds that famed Fort,* the pride of Tullinagee — 



* This Fort, called by the Irish Forth, is a standing monument of 
Danish ingenuity — and for beauty and grandeur perhaps not excelled 
in the British Empire. It is beautifully situated close to my native 



211 

Fit seat for gods — and long the loved abode 
Of Erin's sages and immortal bards. 

Ye fairy dreams of bliss ! where are ye now ? 
Where now the dear companions of my youth ? 
And where is she, that made this earth a heaven. 
And blessed me with her smiles — or with a look 
Of love, that chased away the gloom of care, 
And made me more than happy — more than blest — 
Carrying my soul to highest ecstacy ! 
Has Heaven thus proved severe, and ruined all ? 
Crushing my hopes, just in their morning bloom — 
The flower, ah ! nipped before its sweets were shed ! 
Yes, Heaven has proved severe — what have 1 said ? 
Oh ! Heaven forgive — nor let my anguish keen 
Inspire one thought rebellious 'gainst thy throne. 

The chain is snapped — yea, snapped the tender chain 
That linked me to this earth — and every finer tie 



village, in the romantic townland of Tullinagee, in the county of Lon- 
donderry. From this latter place the greatest statesman that ever 
adorned the British Cabinet derived his title, 



212 

Is burst asunder — nor can summer's eve, 

When youths light-hearted dance upon the green, 

Longer delight — nor aught of rural sports. 

Tell me, my soul — ah ! can I e'er forget 

Th' afflictive day I sought the Tomoch's brow, 

To gaze upon the boiling surge below, 

Where foaming billows beat the hoary cliffs 

On Erin's shore — and view the bowers of green — 

The ivied turrets — seats of classic lore — 

And tomb, where slept all life made dear to me ! 

This done, 1 shed the big and parting tear, 

And sighed to that loved spot a last farewell ! 



THE CHIMING BELL. 

Now, on the gentle breath of morn, 
Once more I hear that chiming bell, 

As onward, slow, each note is borne, 
Like echo's lingering, last farewell. 



213 

And still I love to hear the sound, 
Ascending from the wide-spread vale, 

Filling the spacious concave round, 
Deep mellowed by the passing gale. 

And while I pause to catch each tone 
That vibrates on my pensive ear — 

The images of days far gone, 
In quick succession re-appear. 

I feel, I see, I share again, 

In this short hour, all earth has given, 
Of hope, of pleasure, or of pain, 

To soothe, or cheer my soul to heaven. 

But why should fairy fancy stray, 

Nor leave me with my griefs to dwell ?- 

My purest joys have died away, 

Since first I heard that morning bell.* 



* The above lines were suggested on hearing the morning bell of 
the General Hospital, The General Hospital is a very fine and a ve- 



214 

Yet, when I slumber with the dead, 
Some other bard may wander here, 

To muse, like me, on prospects fled, 
And all that life had rendered dear ! 



STANZAS, 

ADDRESSED TO THE HON. AND RIGHT REVEREND CHARLES JAMES 
STEWART, LORD BISHOP OF QUEBEC. 



-$ik<& ' 



'/]V a,VbQ6)7?Qi(rt 



Uavjas yap (ptXiiifKiv 

Ere I unstring my fond, devoted lyre, 

Whose faithful throbbings spoke the feeling breast- 
Or from the field of poesy retire, 

To seek one little calm of blissful rest ; — 



ry extensive building, situated at a short distance from Quebec, on the 
winding shores of the River St. Charles. The chiming of this bell has 
a most pleasing effect, when heard at a distance on any part of the sur- 
rounding hills. 



215 

Here do I love to mingle with its tone, 

The parting tone, that softly breathes to thee 

This heart's best wishes — for thy name alone 
Is ever dear to memory, and to me. 

And blessed are they who feel Religion's power 
In Gospel truths, by thee so kindly given, 

To cheer the sinking heart in life's last hour, 
Thou good — thou worthy delegate from heaven* 

And, oh ! how pleasingly the mind surveys 
Thy tender friendship, oft on me bestowed, 

Throughout a sunny lapse of happier days, 

When this wrecked heart with pure devotion glowed. 

Had nature formed me of another cast — 
Or chilled imagination's burning power — 

Still moping o'er the Fathers had I passed. 
In dullest gloom, the long and cheerless hour ! 



216 

But I repine not—in the Muses' train 
I love to follow — taught by fancy's call 

To wake a doleful dirge, or pleasing strain, 
As joy, or woe, alternately may fall ! 

The mind, alone the standard of the man, 
If rightly managed, all our bliss secures — 

And clearly shows, that wise, that holy plan, 
By which Omnipotence our peace ensures. 

Farewell, my Lord, until another page 
Shall ope its spotless bosom to my pen — 

When on the pleasing task I will engage, 

To sing thy worth — thou kindest, best of men, 



THE END. 















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WERT *** v^ 

BOOKBINDING « 

Grantville, p s 
Sept— Oct 1985 




•>-'.- 



r/r* a 




£°* 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 388 375 9 # 



